The rain poured heavily that morning, soft thunder echoing above the Velmore Tower. Inside the building, the whispers had spread — Lucian Velmore hasn't shown up in three days. He's gravely ill.
Caliste tried to ignore it at first, drowning herself in sketches and deadlines, but her hand trembled as she reached for her coffee. Something inside her wouldn't rest. Lucian was stubborn when sick — always locking himself in, refusing help, surviving on pride and pain.
By noon, her thoughts betrayed her. She found herself standing in front of the private elevator that led to his penthouse.
The doors slid open. Lucian's assistant, Elias, nearly stumbled when he saw her.
"Miss Winslow? You shouldn't be here—Mr. Velmore… he doesn't want to see anyone."
Caliste's eyes narrowed. "Is he worse?"
Elias hesitated. "He hasn't eaten or taken anything since yesterday. But he insisted no visitors."
"Then you should be glad I'm not a visitor," she said firmly, brushing past him.
"Miss Winslow—please—!"
But the elevator doors had already closed behind her.
---
The penthouse was dim, the air thick with heat and silence. Caliste stepped cautiously, her heels echoing against the marble. Nothing had changed since the last time she'd been there — every polished surface, every shadow, every echo of a life she'd once shared with him.
She stopped at the door of the master bedroom.
"Lucian?" she called softly.
A faint sound answered her — a low, incoherent murmur. Caliste's heart raced. She entered and saw him sprawled on the bed, his shirt half unbuttoned, skin pale and damp with sweat. His breathing was ragged.
"Lucian…" She rushed to his side, pressing a hand to his forehead. He was burning. His eyes fluttered open for a second, fever-dazed, unfocused. "It's me," she whispered, "Caliste."
"...Caliste?" His voice cracked — confused, vulnerable. He tried to sit up but winced. "You're here…"
"You're delirious," she said gently, forcing him to lie back. "Just rest. I'll get you water."
She hurried to the kitchen and poured a glass, but something gnawed at her — the strange scent lingering in the air, too sharp, too sweet. She glanced back at the bedside table. A broken glass. A faint shimmer of powder on the rim. Her pulse quickened.
"Someone tampered with your drink…" she murmured in disbelief.
She knelt beside him, trying to cool his skin with a damp cloth, but his fevered hand caught hers with unexpected strength. His eyes locked onto her — dark, desperate, confused between dream and reality.
"Don't go."
Her breath caught. For a second, she saw not the ruthless CEO but the man she once loved — lost, fragile, burning from inside. "I'm not going anywhere," she said quietly.
Lucian pulled her and kissed her—fiercely, hungrily, like a man starved.
Caliste let out a soft gasp, but her body betrayed her hesitation. Her arms wrapped around his neck, and she kissed him back. With every breath, her restraint crumbled.
Lucian laid her back down on the bed as the afternoon sun bore witness to their reunion—raw, intimate, tangled in sheets and longing. There were no words, only touches and the sound of hearts pounding like war drums.
It wasn't slow.
It wasn't gentle.
It was a storm that had waited too long to break.
By the time their bodies stilled and their breaths slowed, Caliste immediately dressed up to leave careful not yo wake up Lucian.
When she opened the door, Elias stood waiting, pale with guilt.
"You knew," she accused, eyes cold. "You knew something was wrong."
Elias lowered his gaze. "I tried to warn you, Miss Winslow. But you locked the door before I could."
She exhaled shakily, realizing how close Lucian had come to real danger. "No one must know what happened today. Not a word to anyone — especially Lucian."
Elias nodded quickly. "Understood."
Caliste walked out into the cold rain, her pulse still trembling from everything that happened.
---
That night, as Lucian woke up.
His chest tightened.
He whispered her name under his breath — the same name that had haunted his fevered dreams.
> "Caliste…" He dreamed of Caliste.
And for the first time in years, the walls he'd built around himself began to tremble.
-----
The morning sunlight slipped through the tall glass windows of Velmore Industries, casting gold over the cold marble floors. Caliste sat at her desk earlier than usual, her hands trembling slightly as she arranged the documents for the morning meeting.
Yesterday still haunted her — the warmth of Lucian's touch, the tenderness of his lips, and the ache of the longing she had buried for years. It was supposed to be a simple visit, just to make sure he was all right. But one look at his eyes, fevered and vulnerable, had shattered every wall she built around herself.
Now she sat there, acting as if nothing had happened.
The door to the executive hall opened. Her heartbeat stumbled. Lucian entered, looking freshly shaven, composed — as if the night had never happened. His suit was immaculate, his expression unreadable.
Their eyes met briefly.
A polite nod.
Nothing more.
"Good morning, Miss Winslow," Lucian said smoothly, his tone clipped and professional.
"Good morning, Mr. Velmore," Caliste replied without looking up. Her voice was steady, but her chest tightened painfully.
Throughout the meeting, Lucian spoke clearly, discussing the quarterly reports and upcoming partnerships. Caliste took notes mechanically, her face calm while her mind screamed for composure. When their hands brushed accidentally as she passed him a folder, Lucian paused — just for a second — before resuming as if nothing had interrupted him.
When the meeting ended, Caliste returned to her office, shut the door, and pressed her back against it, exhaling shakily.
It meant nothing. It can't mean anything anymore, she told herself.
From now on, she would keep her distance. Focus on work. Forget the warmth of his hands. Forget the way he whispered her name.
Her phone vibrated. She flinched, snatching it quickly from her desk.
Caelum:
Good afternoon, Caliste. Are you free for dinner tonight?
She hesitated. For a brief moment, her mind flickered back to Lucian — the memory of his voice, his eyes, the heat between them. Then she straightened, taking a slow breath.
Maybe it was time to let go of the past.
Caliste:
Yes. I'm free.
Caelum replied almost instantly.
Perfect. I'll pick you up at seven.
She placed her phone down and gazed out the window, her reflection staring back at her — calm, composed, but with a heart quietly waging war.
Tonight, she promised herself, she would draw a line.
Lucian was her past.
Caelum might be her chance to start over.
But deep inside, a whisper lingered — soft, dangerous, and full of truth.
You can't forget the man you still love.