ETHAN
I open my eyes to daylight slipping through the blinds. For a second, I forget where I am — until the faint scent of perfume and last night hits me. I glance at the empty space beside me. She's gone.
Good.
I pull myself out of bed, run a hand through my hair, and make my way downstairs. The smell of frying eggs drifts from the kitchen. I pause at the doorway.
She's there again.
Elena stands by the stove, barefoot, humming softly as if she lives here. The morning light hits her hair, turning it gold, and for a split second, it almost looks… normal.
"I'm not cooking for you," she says quickly, catching my look. "I just got hungry when I woke up."
"Right," I mutter, grabbing a glass from the counter. "Good morning to you too."
She doesn't answer. Instead, she pokes at the pan, pretending not to care.
"Why did you discharge Moth?" she asks again, like we didn't already go through this last night.
"You asked that yesterday"
"Yes, and I remember I got no reply."
I open the fridge and take out a bottle of water. "I didn't discharge her. She's on leave."
"Why?" That's the overly curious Elena I know.
"Her daughter's sick," I reply simply, taking a sip.
"Oh."
There's a short silence. I know what she's thinking — the same thing everyone in this goddamn neighborhood probably thinks: that I fire people for breathing too loudly or folding towels the wrong way.
"I'm not a psychopath who randomly fires my staff," I say flatly, leaning against the counter.
She laughs under her breath. "The neighborhood wouldn't agree with that."
I don't bother replying. I just leave.
Upstairs, I throw on a dark suit, fasten my cufflinks, and grab my keys. I can already feel the headache waiting for me at the office — the investors, the shallow compliments, the fake smiles. All part of the performance.
By the time I pull into the parking lot of Hayes Tech, my mask is back on.
The building towers over Maplewood — glass and steel cutting through small-town simplicity. It's the one thing that feels like mine, though half the board still sees me as a spoiled heir instead of the man keeping their empire alive.
As I walk in, heads turn. My employees straighten, pretending to look busy. The air smells like coffee, money, and ambition — a mix I've grown too used to.
Marcus is already waiting near the elevator, a tablet in hand.
"You're late," he says without looking up.
"I'm aware."
"The investors from Fairfax are already here. They've been waiting for forty minutes.
"Perfect," I mutter. "Maybe they'll think twice before questioning my decisions next time."
Marcus sighs — he's used to this.
When the elevator doors open, we step into the top floor, all glass and silence. Through the wall-to-wall windows, Maplewood looks small — like a miniature world I could crush if I wanted to.
Inside the conference room, the investors look up as I enter — three old men in suits, already whispering. I recognize that look — the quiet disapproval, the judgment wrapped in politeness.
"Mr. Hayes," one of them greets. "We were beginning to think you'd forgotten about us."
"Trust me," I say, sliding into my chair, "I tried."
There's a nervous chuckle from Marcus. The investors don't find it funny.
"We're here to discuss the funding proposal for the new development branch," one begins, opening a folder. "Your delay has already pushed back two major deadlines.
"And yet," I reply, leaning back, "you're still sitting here waiting for me. So let's skip the lecture and get to what really bothers you — control."
The room goes silent.
They exchange uneasy glances, the kind that confirms what I already know — they want to push me out.
But not today.
Not ever.
One of them clears his throat. "Ethan, no one is questioning your leadership, but perhaps you've taken on too much. The Maplewood project, the expansion deal, and now the new research division…"
"That's exactly why it's working," I cut in sharply. "Because I am in control."
Another man leans forward, his voice low and patronizing. "You're talented, no one denies that. But the board needs stability. You have a reputation, Ethan. The press—"
"I don't answer to the press," I snap. "And I don't need a lecture on stability from men whose portfolios are older than my company's servers."
The oldest of them — Roland, my father's longest associate — watches me quietly. His expression gives nothing away. "You sound just like your father.
That makes my jaw tighten.
"I'll take that as an insult."
He smiles faintly. "He would've taken it as a compliment."
I don't respond. I just open the folder in front of me, my pen scratching across the papers. My signature — strong, deliberate — seals the deal. The conversation is over.
When the investors finally leave, Marcus lingers behind.
"You could've gone easier on them," he says quietly.
"I could've," I admit, closing the folder. "But they wouldn't have respected me for it."
He hesitates. "You really think they respect you now?"
I look out the glass wall, the sunlight catching the faint reflection of my face — a stranger in his own tower.
"No," I say. "But they'll obey me. That's enough."
I hear Marcus sigh, tired of my bossiness. He wouldn't get it – he's not the one with so much pressure, expectations and a possible downfall.
"I haven't had breakfast, get me something light to eat. I'll be in my office" I tell him, before walking out of the conference hall.
"Yes sir" he mutters.
I walk past some of my employees and I could feel them stiffen, like they were scared I would point at any of them and get them fired. I get to my office and everywhere falls silent once again, filled only with the hum of machines and the faint buzz of power — the kind that isolates more than it empowers.
And for a moment, I wonder when exactly control started to feel so much like loneliness.
I sink into the chair behind my desk, the noise of the office fading into a low hum. My head starts to ache — sharp, insistent — the kind that crawls from the base of my skull and settles right behind my eyes. I loosen my tie, but it doesn't help.
For a moment, I just sit there, staring at nothing.
And then she's there.
Not Elena.
Her. The woman I accidentally splashed muddy water on.
The encounter at the café runs through my mind too. Her face flickers behind my eyelids — those fierce, unflinching eyes that met mine without a trace of fear, her expression unreadable, like she didn't give a damn who I was.
It's strange. People usually flinch, apologize, or stare too long when they realize who they're talking to.
But she didn't.
And now, I can't seem to get her out of my head.