Ellory stands in front of the SkyEdge glass wall, clutching her tablet like a shield. Her glossy brown hair falls across her oversized glasses, trying to hide the burn of embarrassment from the morning’s disaster. She’s tucked into shapeless navy slacks and a crisp white shirt, sleeves nervously tugged down to hide the scars peeking at her wrists. Silar leans against a marble column nearby, impossibly at ease in a tailored charcoal suit, top button open, his tie a careless strip of midnight silk. His mouth crooks with a hint of mischief as he watches Ellory, eyes roving with heat and something sharper—like curiosity mixed with challenge.

“There’s a trick to surviving here,” Silar drawls, his voice low and teasing, pushing off the column so he can circle her. He reaches out as though to adjust her collar, fingers lingering just a beat too long. “Don’t let them see you sweat. Unless you want them to watch.” It’s meant as reassurance, maybe. Ellory can feel her cheeks flare, her pulse quickening under his gaze. She bites her lip, clutching the tablet tighter, feeling as if his eyes are capable of undressing her soul—or at least stripping her of whatever composure she has left.

At the edge of the room, Joren hovers in the periphery, wearing his signature gentle smile and a grey suit that fits a little loose, as if he’s shrinking into the fabric. His dark hair falls into his eyes as he listens intently to a frantic client on the phone, soothing them with quiet words. He sees Ellory falter and excuses himself, crossing the lounge with quick, purposeful steps. Joren’s hand finds her elbow, light but steady. “Hey, you okay?” he asks, voice soft and earnest, worry creasing his brow. He offers a smile that’s all comfort and no judgment. Ellory nods, but her eyes flicker over to Silar—who’s watching the exchange with a smile that doesn’t reach his eyes.

Silar’s voice sharpens: “Always here to rescue, aren’t you, Joren? Maybe next time let them stand on their own.” His words cut, but there’s an edge of envy there, brittle and raw. Joren stiffens, jaw clenched, but doesn’t fire back. Instead, he turns his attention to Ellory, murmuring encouragement, his hand lingering half a second longer than necessary—a touch that bruises and soothes in equal measure.

The glass doors swing open with a hush, and Mirelle Astyn sweeps in, heels striking marble with measured confidence. She’s in a pencil skirt and cream silk blouse, every inch polished power, her dark hair twisted into a sleek knot. Her eyes land on Silar and something electric passes between them, sharp and private. “Play nice, boys,” she says, arching an eyebrow at both men before turning to Ellory. “You’ll find your footing,” Mirelle murmurs, but there’s a challenge in the way she looks at her, as if warning her to stay out of the fire.

Night drapes itself over the city as the office empties, but Silar remains, perched in the glass-walled boardroom. The city glows beneath him. Mirelle enters, closing the door softly behind her. Silar stands, his silhouette framed by the city lights, his face shadowed but hungry. Mirelle’s fingers brush his lapel and their eyes lock. In a blink, her mouth is on his. The glass wall fogs with heat as Silar presses her against it, her breath a gasp against his ear, fingers digging into his back. Her blouse slips down her shoulder, skin luminous in the city’s glow. Silar’s control unspools as they move together, the glass cold and unyielding against her spine, his hands trailing old scars only she remembers. Their kisses are a battle, desperate and silent, each touch both punishment and plea. “Still afraid to be seen?” Mirelle whispers. “Or do you want the world to watch you break?”

In the corridor, Ellory rounds the corner, files pressed to her chest. Through the fogged glass, she glimpses the tangle of bodies inside—the way Silar holds Mirelle, the raw want in his eyes. A sick wave of jealousy knots in her, hot and sour. She ducks her head, heart hammering, but another part of her can’t help but look—yearning for something she’s never dared claim.

Later, Silar emerges, his shirt untucked, hair mussed, cheeks flushed with something close to shame. He locks eyes with Ellory across the hallway, catching her watching. They both freeze. The air crackles, thick with secrets and questions neither dares voice.

“Don’t believe everything you see,” Silar says, voice rough, a dare as much as an apology. But Ellory can’t look away. Their reflections overlap in the mirrored glass—a collage of longing, fear, and everything left unsaid.

In that heartbeat, Mirelle stands behind Silar, smoothing her blouse and watching Ellory with a knowing, razor-sharp smile.

To be continued...