Elias's POV

From Elias's point of view, the morning had gone in its typical stiff routine, but today—today was different. He could sense the slight change in the air around him, the murmurs just below the surface, and the way everyone was staring at him with that unmistakable curiosity. The tabloid gossip had begun circulating, and even though he tried to stay impartial, he couldn't help but feel the burden of it all.

The doors to the elevator had opened, and there she was—Adeline. Her existence was ever an intriguing complication, one that he couldn't help but disregard even if he wanted to. There was once, a long time ago, when he would have shaken this off with ease. But now, something in what she said, what she looked at him with, complicated the situation more.

Standing there, gazing at her, he made an effort to concentrate on what he was trying to do and keep his own face impassive. But it was too late. The words were out and he couldn't take them back.

"By the way, congratulations," she had said so lightly, and almost like daring him. She knew precisely what had been flying around the office, and precisely how to knock him off killer.

Elias had furrowed his brow, confusion and something else—something much less pleasant—flaring for a moment in his chest.

"On what?" he had asked, attempting to pretend indifference, though it wasn't lost on him that she already knew the answer. His mind was racing, weighing the situation, attempting to get through it without revealing anything.

Then, she'd said it—Seraphina Wynn. The alleged "engagement." The words seemed to hang in the air between them, heavier than they ought to have been. She said it as if it were truth. Her voice was carefree, but there was something more to it—a flash of feeling he couldn't quite decipher.

He couldn't leave it there, not when it was connected to something so intimate, something so open to misinterpretation. Something he didn't want to discuss, not with her, not with anyone.

"You think so?" he had asked, more to regain control of the conversation than anything else. But she just shrugged, dismissing the topic as easily as if it had no weight, even though he could feel the pressure building in his chest.

Her declaration, "Gorgeous, powerful. and germ-free," had been so effortlessly uttered, and he couldn't help but resent the faint sting of it. Did she consider him so little? Was it so simple to diminish him by his tics, his obsessions? He had worked so long to build this facade of control, but with her, there was always the nagging reminder that it was fragile.

His jaw was tightly clenched as he attempted to gather his thoughts. There was silence between them, heavy and awkward, and he could sense her regarding him—waiting for him to tell her something, anything. But he couldn't force himself to lie, not directly. It wasn't the truth. And if there was a part of him that desired it to be so—well, that wasn't something he needed to address at the moment. Not now, with her.

It's not true," he said, the words escaping him more softly than he meant them to. The truth stung on his tongue, but he couldn't risk having her think otherwise.

And then there was her reply. Relaxed, near careless, but with that undercurrent of knowing. Naturally, she hadn't accepted it at face value. She never did. "Didn't say it was," she had answered, the smallest possible smile tugging at her mouth. "I just thought you'd mention it, given that we work together."

Elias had sensed a spark of something, but he couldn't quite put his finger on it—something constricted in his chest. Perhaps it was the way she worded it, like he should have told her something more. Like she was waiting for something out of him he wasn't ready to provide.

The doors of the elevator had opened, and he had exited, requiring space. But he hadn't anticipated the last words being spoken by her. "If I ever get engaged, Adeline… you won't be reading it in a tabloid."

It had been a matter-of-fact statement, but it had been a shock to his innards. His brain was still catching up on the gravity of the moment when he turned, his eyes locking onto hers for half a second, before he departed.

The gravity of the discussion was oppressive as he walked down the hallway, every step sounding too intentional, too deliberate. He didn't understand what had driven him to utter the words, but now, in the chill of the hallway on either side of him, he could sense the weight of the words. And still, he couldn't regret them. There was a measure of truth there, buried under cascades of defensive reserve.

But as he turned to leave, something in the bottom of his stomach informed him that it wasn't finished—not by a long way