Chapter 2

Shadows of the Past.

Over Manhattan, the morning sky was a stifling gray that threatened to pour. Standing at the entryway to Whitaker Architecture, with its sleek, powerful edifice shining like a fortress, was Clara Hawthorne. The sound of clicking heels and soft whispers blended with the chill of the air conditioner as she entered. Feeling uncomfortable amid the polished professionals who moved through the lobby like shadows, she straightened her blazer.

With the exception of the slight buzz of the machinery, the elevator ride to her department was eerily quiet. Clara entered a sea of immaculate glass offices with steel accents as soon as the doors opened. Cold and mechanical, the atmosphere was more machine than alive.

The silence was broken by a harsh voice. "Miss Hawthorne?" Clara's harder tone matched the sharpness of her supervisor, Evelyn Marlowe, whom she turned to meet. Your desk is located in the far corner. Your mailbox contains your first task. It must be completed by the end of the day.

Evelyn pivoted on her heel as Clara nodded and bit back a rejoinder. She took a seat at her workstation and pulled up the assignment: a complicated proposal that needed careful design modifications. Her stomach dropped at the sheer volume of it. She started drawing ideas, her fingers shaking a little.

A close voice disrupted her focus. Leaning over her desk, one coworker hissed, "Small-town girl in the big city?" "Good luck staying up to date."

A tight smile formed on Clara's lips. She calmly responded, "Luck's for people who don't have talent," and turned back to her job.

Hours went by as she felt the pressure of the assignment. She was just about to go forward when she heard quiet whispers coming from the office next door. "...Ethan's choice? One voice said, "What happened to his brother?" Mid-stroke, Clara's pen hesitated.

Her phone buzzed on the desk before she could listen in any more. The words, "Watch yourself around Whitaker," made her gasp as she took it up.

Ethan Whitaker stood on his penthouse balcony, far above the city. He hardly noticed the abrasive air biting his skin. His eyes skimmed the glistening horizon, but his thoughts were elsewhere.

His restless nights had grown accustomed to his suffering. He was pulled back to a memory he would never be able to shake by the subtle echoes of the past. His knuckles were white as he held onto the railing.

His voice could hardly be heard above the wind as he murmured, "If you were still here, you'd know what to do." There was a spark of agony in his eyes that he would never show the world.

Without feeling the warmth of the room, he retreated within. Except for the picture on his desk, his office was as clean as ever. A black-and-white picture of a little child and a woman with an eerily familiar smile caught Ethan's attention. His face darkened as he ran his thumb along the border of the frame.

The past was a noose that tightened around every choice he made, not just a ghost. He looked at the sketchbook Clara Hawthorne's unfinished work that lay next to the picture. Ideas brimming with promise, unfiltered yet compelling, abound in its pages.

His determination growing, he snapped the book shut. He was captivated by Clara's attitude, but if she weren't strong enough, the world he lived in would crush her.

He muttered to himself, "We'll see if she can survive this time."

With her portfolio cradled against her bosom, Clara entered the conference room with a racing heart. The head of the table was already occupied by Ethan Whitaker, who was staring at her with his sharp eyes. Her nerves crackled like static, and the air seemed oppressive.

"Miss Hawthorne," he said without introduction, his voice as icy as his face. "Don't take up my time."

Clara inhaled deeply to steady herself. Despite the internal tempest, she answered calmly, "I wouldn't dream of it."

She carefully explained her changes to the proposal while setting her sketches on the table. As Ethan leaned forward and scanned her work with an intensity that made her skin prickle, she could feel the tension.

Pointing to one of her designs, he stated sternly, "This is flawed." "It would crumble under its own weight if it were put into practice."

Clara's cheeks began to heat up. "I disagree," she responded, sounding more assertive than she had anticipated. "The structure holds if you adjust the support beams here," she said, pointing to the sketch.

With the exception of Ethan's pen's tiny scratching sound against the paper, the room became quiet. With a slight smirk twisting around his lips, he looked up at last. Intriguing, he whispered. "But not up to par."

Even more intimidating than the previous task, he slid it across the table. "To correct this, you have until tomorrow. No justifications.

As Clara met his unwavering gaze, her heart raced. "I'll finish it."

With her nerves still raw, she left the room and turned to see Ethan staring at her with an expression she couldn't quite put her finger on a mixture of curiosity and something deeper.

With the city lights blinking in the distance through the small window, Clara sat at her claustrophobic kitchen table, her face glowing ethereally blue from her laptop. Her sole companions were the faint rustle of the night breeze and the hum of the refrigerator. Her mind was racing with questions she dared not speak out loud as her fingers lingered over the keyboard.

The website of Whitaker Architecture was immaculate and well-maintained, a carefully constructed façade for the vast empire it symbolized. Clara, however, went beyond the formal façade. News archives, old articles, and lost interviews all piqued her interest. The name Ethan Whitaker kept coming up, with layers of mystery surrounding each reference.

An article with the headline, "Tragic Loss: Whitaker Family Mourns Young Heir," caught her attention. A younger Ethan was shown in the accompanying photo standing next to a boy who had the same piercing eyes but a bright, carefree smile.

As Clara attentively read the article, she felt sad since it described how Ethan's younger brother Nathaniel died in what was determined to be a tragic accident. However, rumors of a financial scandal involving their father continued to stoke suspicions of foul play.

"It makes sense why he acts that way." Clara whispered to herself in a gentle, sympathetic voice. "He has endured a lot."

She gasped as she continued to scroll. Whitaker Architecture's role in a contentious land development agreement connected to Nathaniel's passing was mentioned in an older piece. The fragments started to fit together to create an eerie puzzle that hinted at worse truths than she had anticipated.

Her screen flickered abruptly. "Unauthorized Access Detected" was shown as a red alert. Clara's heart pounded in her chest as she froze. The damage had already been done when she hastily closed the tabs.

Miles away, Ethan's security team examined the activity record without her knowledge. Leaning over a monitor was a man in a dark suit. He said, "Should we notify Mr. Whitaker?"

The other said in a quiet voice, "Not yet." "We'll see how far she can go."

Even though the weight of her finding hung over her, Clara entered the office the following morning with a fresh sense of resolve. Inside Whitaker Architecture, the anxiety was nearly palpable and the air felt heavier than normal. Her shoes clicked on the shiny floor, and whispers echoed through the desk rows.

When she left her purse at her desk, a coworker nearby made a scathing comment. "Hawthorne, are you already getting intimate with the boss? Don't settle in too much.

Clara tensed up without flinching. Her gaze remained steady as she turned to the sneering woman. "I wouldn't be here if I didn't belong here," she remarked calmly, her voice breaking through the cacophony.

Another voice, smooth and tinged with faint malice, interrupted the woman before she could reply. "Well, well. Hawthorne, Clara Clara turned to see Gabrielle Richards walking toward her, her pointed heels tapping on the floor. Waves of dark hair framed Gabrielle's graceful features, and her eyes gleamed with a perilous combination of disgust and fascination.

Gabrielle gave a cheesy smile. "I am aware of you. ambitious and fresh-faced, yet in this situation, ambition can be so brittle.

Clara squared her shoulders. "I appreciate the advice, but I'm capable of taking care of myself."

Clara felt a shiver run down her spine when Gabrielle laughed. "We'll see." Her voice trailed off as she drew slightly closer. Be mindful of your step, my love. I am a forgiving person, but not everyone here is.

The room fell silent as a door opened before Clara could reply. Ethan Whitaker came out of his office, his dark eyes scanning the room with an enigmatic expression. They touched down on Clara.

"Miss Hawthorne." My workspace. Right now.

Clara followed him, her pulse thumping in her chest, the murmuring growing louder. The sound reverberated like a verdict as the door clicked shut behind her. Leaning against the desk, Ethan stared at her.

His voice was inscrutable and low when he added, "You've been busy."