Adrian sat alone in his study, the faint hum of the city outside blending with the ticking of the wall clock. Midnight. The air was still, heavy with the kind of quiet that left space for thoughts he'd rather not have.
His tie was undone, the top button of his shirt loosened. On the desk before him lay two open files — the quarterly report, and beside it, the letter Leah had found earlier. The paper was creased now, faintly smudged at the edge where she'd held it. He'd noticed that when she'd handed it to him — her fingers slightly trembling, eyes searching his face as though looking for a truth she couldn't quite ask about.
He hadn't said much then. He rarely did. But the look in her eyes had stayed with him. Too perceptive. Too sincere.
Adrian exhaled slowly and leaned back in his chair. The lamp cast a warm pool of light over the desk, illuminating the faint scrawl of handwriting that still haunted him. A familiar hand. A letter meant for him… or perhaps for someone else. He wasn't even sure anymore.
He reached for a pen, then stopped midway, setting it back down. Work used to be his distraction — the clean precision of numbers, the order in reports. But lately, Leah's presence had been slipping through those cracks of control. Her quiet focus, her questions, her stubborn decency. The way she seemed to exist in the same world of silence he'd built for himself, but never fully surrendered to it.
He rubbed the bridge of his nose, a small, humorless laugh escaping his throat. What are you doing, Collins?
The faint buzz of his phone pulled him out of his thoughts. A message from Julian — his lawyer, his friend, and the only one who knew fragments of what had happened years ago.Julian: "Heard from the board. They'll want an update soon. You can't keep this buried."Adrian's jaw tightened. His fingers hovered over the screen, then typed:Adrian: "I know. Not tonight."He put the phone facedown, as if turning away from the past itself.
The sound of rain started outside — soft at first, then steady, drumming against the windowpane. His gaze shifted to the city skyline blurred beyond the glass. Lights flickered. Streets glistened. Somewhere out there, Leah was probably still awake too. She always stayed late when deadlines loomed, sipping her tea instead of coffee, a soft melody sometimes playing from her desk.
He caught himself wondering what she was thinking about — if the letter still lingered in her mind. If she, too, had felt that quiet charge between them earlier, when their eyes had met and neither spoke.
He shouldn't wonder. Not about her.
Adrian stood, restless, crossing to the window. The reflection staring back at him was composed, unreadable. The world saw a calm, calculating CEO. But beneath that calm, the past was shifting — old secrets stirring. And Leah, with her unwavering honesty, was a danger to the order he'd spent years building.
Yet… she was also the one person whose presence didn't feel like intrusion. It felt — grounding.
He turned back to his desk. The letter lay open, its words faded and intimate. "Some truths aren't meant to be hidden forever…"
He reached for it, then stopped. Instead, he took the company file beside it — Leah's latest audit summary — and read through it line by line. Her handwriting appeared in the margin, neat, careful. She'd caught an error in one of the supplier reports — something his senior analysts had missed.
A faint smile curved at the edge of his mouth. "Always watching the details," he murmured.
Without thinking, he reached for his pen and made a correction beside her note — a tiny gesture of acknowledgment. Not because it was wrong, but because it meant he'd seen it. That she'd been seen.
The irony wasn't lost on him. "Silent corrections," he whispered to himself, almost amused at the thought.
He didn't hear the footsteps until the knock came — soft, hesitant."Sir?"It was Leah's voice.
Adrian froze for a moment. He hadn't expected her — not this late. "Come in," he said, tone even.
Leah stepped inside, damp from the rain. Her cardigan was slightly askew, hair pulled into a loose bun. She looked surprised to find him still here, though she quickly tried to mask it."I—uh, I forgot to leave the final audit file," she said, holding a folder close to her chest.
He nodded toward the desk. "You can leave it there."
She crossed the room, the quiet between them stretching thin. The rain outside softened the edges of the silence. As she placed the folder down, her hand brushed the corner of the letter on his desk. She stilled, eyes flickering briefly — curiosity, restraint, something deeper.
Their gazes met.It wasn't long — a few seconds, maybe less — but it was enough. The kind of look that made time bend slightly out of shape.
"I didn't mean to interrupt," she said quietly."You didn't." His voice came out lower than intended. "You should head home before it gets worse out there."
She nodded, but didn't move. The air between them felt too charged, too fragile. "Good night, Mr. Collins."
He inclined his head slightly. "Good night, Leah."
She turned to leave, pausing briefly at the door. "For what it's worth… the letter—it looked personal. I didn't read beyond the first line."
Adrian's throat tightened for a fraction of a second. "Thank you," he said softly. "For respecting that."
Her smile was faint, almost invisible. "Everyone deserves privacy… even in a world that doesn't offer much of it."
When she was gone, the echo of her words lingered. Adrian looked down at the letter again, the faint trace of her fingertips now visible on its edge. He didn't know whether to be grateful or afraid.
The clock ticked again. The rain eased. And somewhere in the quiet, he realized — for the first time in years — that silence no longer felt like safety. It felt like something waiting to be broken.