The city looked beautiful from thirty floors above. It was all glass towers, glittering lights and the endless night sky with people that never really slept. From this height he could see the traffic lights below him, blinking red and green lights like a heartbeat he could no longer feel.
The wind carried the faint smell of rain that was yet to come. And smoke. The cigarette in between his fingers had already burned halfway down before he had noticed.
He didn't remember when he started smoking, only the first dream that had spurred him to.
Fire. Raging and hungry.
Not warmth and definitely not comfort.
For five years, the dreams had come and gone in fragments. And the dreams always began the same way—smoke, the crackling of wood, the smell of ashes, the loud shrill of someone amidst the ashes, a woman's silhouette, and a voice calling a name he didn't understand. A soft, desperate call for—Relia.
His jaw tightened, the first time he heard it, he thought it was just nonsense but by the tenth time, it felt like guilt.
It had been five years—Five years of waking up to the taste of ash in his mouth and a name he had never heard before, echoing in his head. The first time it happened was the same year his sister died, he was seventeen at the time and that was the same year everything inside him went quiet.
He took another long drag because the burn steadied him. Emotions were inefficient and attachment was dangerous. That's what his father always said.
Never let them see weakness.
Appearance mattered, he'd learned that the hard way. But for him—control mattered, And Rowan was very good at control.
That was, until tonight.
His phone vibrated on the table behind him; it was a message from his PA—Caleb. He picked it up and glanced at the message. A simple reminder that he stared at longer than necessary.
Anniversary dinner. 8:00 PM.
He exhaled slowly, watching the smoke disappear into the night air then he crushed the cigarette against the glass ashtray beside him. Some minutes later, another text came through—his driver.
I'm here, Sir.
Rowan walked over to his mirror, adjusted his cufflinks, his expression settling into that of calm indifference and by the time he stepped into the elevator, there was no trace of smoke on him—only control.
---
In another part of Westbridge City, a dinner was being held with many prominent figures from all walks of life in attendance. The grand ballroom gleamed with polished restraint—marble floors reflecting the sharp white glow of tiered chandeliers. Glass walls that overlooked the city's skyline, towers of steel and light rising like silent witnesses.
Conversations moved in low, controlled waves while the orchestra warmed up the room. Waiters in black waistcoats moved around, carrying glasses of champagne for the invited guests. The event in question was the anniversary of the Valemore Group, and everyone invited had a connection to the Valemore Group.
Then conversations hushed and the clinking of glass froze for a moment, as if the party had paused to acknowledge who had joined it. The man of the hour and CEO of the Valemore Group—Rowan Valemore had arrived and everyone was eager to get in his good books.
---
For Rowan, the ballroom was loud, polished and carefully curated but it was also filled with expensive perfume, laughter and artificial smiles. He had already shaken twenty hands, possibly more and his face had already disposed the previously plastered business smile. He barely even listened to the conversation around him.
Until—
He saw her—untouched by the chatter around her. She stood at the edge of the room speaking calmly, like she had nothing to prove. And the first thing he noticed was that she wasn't even trying. She wasn't trying to impress anyone, wasn't scanning the room for important faces, she wasn't even looking at him. And somehow—
That was what made him look.
Something in his chest tightened, not attraction—recognition. He had never seen her before, but the certainty lingered. Someone around her said something she laughed at, and for a split second—
The smell of smoke, ashes, and a shrill scream returned to him. His vision flickered, then—wood dais, fire, a silhouette. His lungs tightened as if he had been here before, but he brushed it off, chalking it up to stress from work. The M.C called him up to give his speech, he hesitated for a moment, just a moment before walking up to the raised platform, the sounds of applause following him on his way.
---
When he got to his penthouse that night, the fire flashed behind his eyes as he looked at himself in the bathroom mirror. The heat of the shower fogged the mirror, his hair clung to his face.
It was probably the weight of the day on him, or something else but his heart did not stop racing. He took in a couple of breaths and stepped back into the shower—cold this time, to cool this consuming heat that was affecting him. It worked, however he wasn't taking any chances.
He did his reviewed his work for the day and concluded it quickly. Then moved to his bed to sleep. This time however, when he closed his eyes to sleep, the woman in the flames turned and she had a face.
Her face.