The invitation—if you could call it that—had arrived via a formal, three-line email from Elias's assistant at 7:00 AM.
"Due to a server migration at the firm, Mr. Thorne suggests moving today's strategy session to his residence. Address attached."
Clara stood in front of the matte-black door of a luxury high-rise in the Tribeca district, feeling an unfamiliar flutter of nerves. She had spent weeks fighting Elias in the neutral trenches of boardrooms and warehouses. Entering his home felt like crossing an invisible border into a country where she didn't know the laws.
The door opened before she could knock. Elias stood there, and for the first time, he wasn't wearing a tie. He was in a simple black cashmere sweater and dark trousers. The casualness of it was more jarring than his coldest business suit.
"You're early," he noted, stepping aside to let her in.
"Traffic was light. I can wait in the hallway if my punctuality offends your schedule," Clara replied, her dry wit masking her curiosity as she stepped into the foyer.
The apartment was exactly what she expected, yet entirely different. It was cavernous and minimalist, with floor-to-ceiling glass that made the Manhattan skyline look like a private gallery piece. But it was also… silent. Not the peaceful silence of a home, but the heavy, airless silence of a museum. There were no photos on the shelves, no stray mail on the counters, no signs of a life actually being lived.
"Nice place," she said, her voice echoing. "A bit crowded, though. How do you fit all your warmth and personality in here?"
Elias didn't take the bait. He led her to a massive marble island in the kitchen where a laptop and several stacks of Vance Logistics folders were already neatly arranged. "Coffee is in the carafe. Help yourself."
They worked in a disciplined rhythm for three hours, the only sounds being the scratching of pens and the occasional chime of a notification. They were deep into the tax implications of the merger when Clara's stomach betrayed her with a loud, indignant growl.
Elias looked up, a ghost of a smirk playing on his lips. "I take it you skipped breakfast."
"I had a granola bar," she lied. "It was... small."
"I'll order something." He stood up and walked toward the kitchen.
"Don't bother with anything fancy," Clara said, stretching her stiff back. "I'm a pizza or Thai food person. I assume you only eat liquid gold and the tears of your competitors?"
Elias paused, his hand hovering over his phone. For a second, his guard dropped. "I actually make a decent pasta. My mother taught me before… well, a long time ago."
Clara leaned against the stool, intrigued. "The Great Elias Thorne cooks? I'll believe it when I taste it."
It was a challenge, and she saw the moment he decided to accept it. He moved with a surprising, fluid grace in the kitchen. She watched him chop garlic with the same surgical precision he used to deconstruct a balance sheet. As the scent of basil and searing tomatoes began to fill the sterile air, the apartment felt—for the first time—like a home.
"My father used to say that you can tell everything about a person by how they treat a kitchen," Clara said softly, watching him.
"And what does this tell you?" Elias asked without looking up.
"That you're obsessed with control," she said. "But also that you're used to doing things for yourself. You don't like being served."
Elias plated the pasta and set a bowl in front of her. "Being served creates a debt. I prefer to keep my ledgers balanced."
They ate in a silence that was surprisingly comfortable. But as Clara reached for the salt, her sleeve caught on the edge of a small, framed sketch tucked behind a vase—the only personal item she had seen. It fell over.
"Oh, sorry—" She reached to pick it up, but Elias's hand shot out, pinning the frame to the counter before she could see it clearly.
His reaction was visceral. His fingers were white-knuckled, and his eyes had gone cold again—the shutters slamming shut so fast it left her breathless.
"Don't," he said, his voice a low, warning rasp.
Clara pulled her hand back as if burned. "Elias, I was just—"
"We should get back to the Q4 projections," he interrupted, his tone clinical and final. He picked up the frame and slid it into a drawer, locking it.
The warmth that had begun to thaw the room evaporated instantly. Clara realized then that the "guarded" version of Elias wasn't just a professional choice. It was a fortress built over a grave.