Faith

Elias's office felt colder than usual. Or maybe it was just quieter.

He adjusted his cufflinks for the third time that morning, though they were already perfect. His desk was pristine—pens aligned, papers sorted with geometric precision. The air purifier hummed softly in the corner.

Still, something was off.

He sat behind the desk, staring at the logistics schedule Nathan had sent. Adeline's plane had landed twenty minutes ago. She'd be at the hotel by now.

He did not care. Obviously.

He opened an email, typed a line, deleted it. Tried again. Paused. Deleted again.

Elias (grumbling):"This is inefficient."

He shut the window. Leaned back in his chair. His gaze slid toward the empty desk just outside his office—the one that, lately, had been hers.

A coffee mug with faded print. A half-used notepad. A pen she clicked incessantly when deep in thought.

Too quiet.

He opened the Singapore branch's logistics feed—just protocol, not surveillance. Her name was on the boardroom's agenda for the morning.

Elias (under his breath):"She can handle it."

A beat.

He stood and walked slowly to the window. Rain streaked down the glass, the city a dull blur behind it. He watched it fall, detached. The pane separated him from it all—precisely the way he preferred it.

Remoteness was useful. Orderly. It kept things clean.

And yet…

He heard her voice in the elevator again. Remembered the faint smirk. The night she stood in the rain, soaked and shaking, still too stubborn to ask for help.

Too bold to be afraid.

His phone buzzed.

Nathan [text]:She just started the meeting. Room's full. I'll update you.

He didn't reply.

Instead, he reached for the hand sanitizer. One pump. Slow rub of the palms. His reflection in the glass stared back, unimpressed.

She wasn't like the others.

That was the problem.

He sat again. Opened a file. Tried to read. The words bled together by the second paragraph. His eyes drifted, inevitably, to her itinerary.

Half of him hoped she dazzled them. That she returned sharper, stronger, undeniable.

The other half—the part buried beneath disinfected layers and locked drawers—hoped she wouldn't forget for a second who sent her.

And who would be waiting when she came back.