Sixty hearts blue 10

Lisa's hands trembled as she rifled through the mess of paperwork on her desk. The deadline loomed just hours away, and Bianca's warning echoed in her mind. "You could lose your job if it's not done in time." That sharp, knowing tone still stung, like Bianca relished reminding her how replaceable she was.

For a fleeting moment, Lisa imagined switching places with her. Bianca—the head of the advertising department, who never had to scramble, never had to panic. She could pass work off to others with a flick of her wrist and walk away. Lisa had no such luxury. She exhaled shakily, her chest tight, her mind spiraling with thoughts she couldn't outrun.

Stephen.

Ever since that day, she couldn't stop replaying it. One wrong sentence, blurted without thinking, and now it haunted her. His reaction—so unexpected—looped through her mind. It shouldn't have been a big deal. But it was. And she knew why.

"When will you realize I love you, Stephen?" Lisa muttered under her breath, the words barely escaping her lips before she shoved them down again.

The moment still haunted her. She had called Michael afterward, desperate for reassurance, but all he'd said was, "Apologize. To him, not to me." Daniella had brushed it off like it was nothing, but to Lisa, it had shattered everything.

Yesterday, she had tried to fix it. She sat at her desk, waiting for Stephen to pass by, rehearsing an apology over and over. But when he finally did, she froze. He looked different—moody, withdrawn. His usual easygoing charm was gone, replaced by something unreadable. He hadn't smiled. Hadn't even looked at her.

It wasn't supposed to hurt this much.

Lisa exhaled, resting her cheek against her palm, fingers pressing into her temple. Maybe she had ruined everything.

A sharp floral scent pulled her from her thoughts. Lisa's gaze lifted just as Bianca's laugh carried through the office. She stood a few desks away, effortlessly commanding attention even in casual conversation. There was something about the way Bianca moved—how she held herself, how people naturally gravitated toward her.

Lisa's stomach twisted when Bianca turned, their eyes locking across the room.

"Psst." Lisa barely whispered, but Bianca caught the sound anyway.

With a flick of her manicured hand, she dismissed the blonde man she'd been speaking to and sauntered over. Each step of her heels clicking against the polished floor sent Lisa's pulse higher.

"Don't tell me you're still not done." Bianca's voice was crisp, each word sharpened with impatience.

Lisa swallowed hard, forcing herself to steady. Don't let her see you flustered. "I'll be finished in an hour."

Bianca arched a perfectly sculpted brow. "It needs to be on the Chief Accountant's desk by the end of the day. You're lucky he's not here yet to—"

"Stephen's not here?" Lisa cut in, the words slipping out too fast, sharper than she intended.

Bianca's expression flickered, a flash of curiosity beneath her usual cool exterior. "No," she said slowly, eyes narrowing. "Why? You think something's wrong with him? He's been acting strange lately—distant. You'd know if something was up. You're closer to him than anyone else here."

Lisa's grip tightened around her pen. She wanted to get up, to find him, to know. But she forced herself to stay still, her heart hammering against her ribs. "I am not," she mumbled, the lie bitter on her tongue.

Bianca leaned in slightly, lowering her voice. "Answer me honestly. Do you have feelings for him? You know who I'm talking about."

Lisa's breath caught. Her pulse roared in her ears. She could deny it—brush it off like always. Pretend it wasn't obvious. But then, to her own surprise, she didn't.

"Yes, I do."

Bianca straightened, her expression unreadable for a split second before amusement flickered through her eyes.

Lisa let out a slow breath, the confession settling over her. I had always known. I just wasn't sure.

She could see it now—why she had been holding on so tightly. Why it hurt this much. And why, no matter how much she tried, she couldn't let Stephen go.

And Bianca? She wasn't surprised. Almost every woman in the company had noticed Stephen, the strikingly handsome, frustratingly unreadable man that he was. And Lisa?

She wasn't the exception.

************

Mrs. Jones watched Stephen pace the living room, his phone gripped so tightly his knuckles had turned white. He dialed Roselle's number again. And again. Each time, silence met him—no answer, no message, nothing.

She had never seen her grandson like this. Stephen was always composed, always in control. But now? Now, he looked like he was unraveling.

His face was pale, his bloodshot eyes shadowed from nights without sleep. He hadn't been to the office in days, claiming he was sick, but Mrs. Jones knew better. It wasn't his body failing him—it was his worry for Roselle. She was all he could think about. He had even driven to her house, hoping for an answer, only to return more restless after a neighbor offhandedly mentioned her mother was out of town.

Stephen tried her number again. Straight to voicemail. His shoulders slumped, a shaky breath escaping him. "What's going on, Rose? Where are you?" His voice cracked, his gaze locked on the phone screen as if willing it to light up with her name.

Mrs. Jones's heart ached. She had raised Stephen to be strong, to weather anything, but this—this was breaking him.

"Maybe she misplaced her phone, Steph," she said gently.

He didn't respond. Instead, he winced, pressing his fingers to his temple like he was trying to hold himself together. Then, suddenly, a single tear slipped down his cheek.

Mrs. Jones moved to his side, her chest tightening. Without hesitation, she reached out, placing a hand on his shoulder. "Steph," she murmured, her voice soft with the same warmth she had used when he was a boy. "You need to rest. You're wearing yourself out."

He lifted his gaze to her, desperation bleeding through his expression. "It's been three days, Grandma." His voice trembled. "She wouldn't just disappear like this. She would've called me. Something's wrong—I can feel it."

Mrs. Jones wanted to reassure him. She needed to believe there was a simple explanation. But doubt was creeping into her own mind now, an unease she couldn't ignore.

"Maybe her phone's broken," she offered, trying to keep her tone steady. "Or the battery died. Let's wait until her mother gets back. She might know something."

Stephen shook his head. His grip on the phone tightened like it was the only thing anchoring him. "How long am I supposed to wait?" His voice was raw, barely holding together. "I can't… I can't do anything until I know she's okay."

Mrs. Jones didn't have an answer. Instead, she did the only thing she could—she pulled him into a hug. His body was rigid at first, but then he sank against her, his forehead resting against her shoulder, just like he had when he was a child.

"You'll hear from her, Steph," she whispered. "You just need to give it a little time. Everything will be fine."

He nodded weakly, but she could still feel the tension in him, the way his body refused to believe her words.

A moment later, he pulled away and redialed Roselle's number.

Straight to voicemail.

His breath hitched. "Please, Rose." His voice was barely audible now, a fractured whisper. "Don't let anything bad happen to you. I can't live without you."

Mrs. Jones tightened her arms around him, closing her eyes.

And silently, she prayed.

•

Roselle stared at her phone as it lit up again, Stephen's name flashing across the screen. She curled tighter around her pillow, pressing it beneath her chin. Call after call. His persistence was relentless, chipping away at her resolve. She'd lost count of how many times he'd tried to reach her. Every time, her chest clenched, her fingers twitched, tempted to answer.

But she couldn't. Not yet.

The thought of hearing his voice terrified her. She wasn't ready—not when she was still drowning in questions, still trying to make sense of everything. That voice. The girl's voice. Soft, sweet, unfamiliar.

That was the moment everything had changed.

Stephen had always sworn she was the only one, always made her feel like she was his whole world. But that call? It had shattered something inside her. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't stop replaying it, couldn't stop wondering—Who was she? Why did she have his phone? What did she mean to him?

A bitter ache spread through her chest. She still loved him. That was the worst part. If she could just hate him, it would be easier. But she couldn't erase the way he made her feel—the way he laughed, the warmth of his touch, the moments that once made her believe in forever.

Tears blurred her vision. Her throat tightened. "Why, Stephen?" she whispered, her voice barely more than a breath. "Why did you have to ruin it?"

He was beautiful, magnetic—of course, women would want him. But had he let one of them in? Had he touched her? The thought made Roselle's heart twist violently, made her stomach knot until she thought she might be sick.

She wiped at her tears, but they kept coming. Deep down, she knew—she might never feel this way about anyone else. Loving Stephen had taken everything she had, and now… now, it felt like there was nothing left.

Her phone buzzed again. His name lit up the screen.

Without thinking, she reached for it, her breath catching. Her thumb hovered over the answer button, caught in the war between wanting to hear his voice and fearing what it might do to her.

A shaky sigh escaped her lips.

Her heart was a battlefield.

And she had no idea which side would win.