Morning came quiet, like it was trying not to be noticed. The city was washed clean, all gray light and misted glass.
Mara hadn't slept much. The hours between night and dawn stretched thin, full of half-formed thoughts and what-ifs. Every time she closed her eyes, she saw Elias—standing too close, saying nothing, the space between them heavy with everything they hadn't done.
She caught her reflection in the mirror: eyes ringed with sleeplessness, hair falling loose, blouse buttoned too neatly. It was a costume. Control stitched over chaos.
The elevator ride to the twenty-seventh floor felt endless. When the doors slid open, the hum of the office swallowed her whole. Phones, footsteps, polite laughter—life pretending it wasn't fragile.
Elias's door was half open. He was already there, bent over a stack of files, light spilling over his shoulders. The same suit as always, the same composure. Nothing about him said last night happened.
Mara knocked anyway.
He looked up, eyes unreadable. "You're early."
"So are you."
A pause. Then: "We should talk."
She stepped inside. "About what?"
"About pretending."
Her pulse tripped. "You're good at it."
"So are you," he said, too softly.
The silence that followed wasn't awkward—it was fragile. Neither of them trusted it.
"I thought…" she began, but the words died halfway.
He straightened, sliding a folder toward her. "We'll act normal. No late nights, no closed doors. There's a board dinner next week—you'll attend, purely professional."
Mara stared at the folder but didn't reach for it. "You really think it's that easy?"
"No," Elias said. "But it's necessary."
She nodded, even though something in her chest rebelled. "Right. Necessary."
He watched her then, eyes flicking to the window as if the view might save them both. "Mara," he said quietly, "last night—"
"Didn't happen." Her voice was sharper than she meant.
He hesitated, then gave a small nod. "Alright."
But when she turned to leave, his voice found her again. Softer. "You should eat something. You look pale."
That single, ordinary sentence unraveled her more than any confession could have.
She left without answering, heels clicking too loud in the hall. Each step felt like choosing survival over something she didn't yet have a name for.
Back at her desk, the world went on—emails, coffee, the endless rhythm of pretending. But when she reached for her cup, her hands were still shaking.