The glass doors of Sinclair Global slid open with a soft hiss, and the world inside felt louder than the street she'd just left.
Because everywhere she looked...
There they were.
The screens that usually flashed stock updates and market tickers now showed a bold entertainment headline:
MR. SINCLAIR AND HIS NEW WOMAN?
Sources claim she's "mysterious... too close for comfort."
And right underneath it—
the photo.
A grainy, zoomed-in shot of her and Alex from yesterday's event. He was leaning in to speak to her. She was looking up at him. The angle made it look intimate. Almost intentional.
Zarah blinked twice, inhaled once, and kept walking.
Her heels clicked across the marble floor like a metronome anchoring her sanity.
One-two. One-two. Professional rhythm.
But the whispers rose anyway.
"Is that her?"
"She's pretty though."
"I knew something was off with the way he looks at her."
"So it's true?"
"Do you think she'll get fired?"
"Fired? Fired? Please—she's protected."
Zarah didn't flinch, didn't slow.
Only her jaw locked for half a second.
They're loud today, she thought.
Loud and bored, apparently.
She turned into the hallway leading to her floor.
The second she stepped inside, Sarah rushed toward her with a tablet hugged to her chest and an apologetic expression already forming.
"Zarah, good morning—"
"I know," Zarah cut softly, lifting a brow. "The building apparently woke up with a PhD in assumptions."
Sarah groaned. "They've been talking since 7 a.m. I tried to shut some of it down but—"
"It's fine."
It wasn't.
But she refused to give it life.
Sarah quickly shifted back into work mode.
"Okay—so. Mr. Sinclair won't be available for the ten o'clock with Marshall."
Zarah blinked. "He isn't?"
"No." Sarah lowered her voice. "He left earlier. Early early. No explanation. Just told me to make sure everything continues as normal."
Zarah didn't react, but something inside her chest tightened.
"Alright," she said calmly. "Then I'll handle it."
Sarah let out a breath of relief.
"I knew you'd say that."
"One of us has to be predictable," Zarah muttered, pulling out her iPad.
The moment I stepped into the West Wing conference room, the atmosphere shifted.
The Marshall delegation was already seated—architects, engineers, procurement reps—all arranged neatly, blueprints rolled beside them, tablets open, lasers pointed at nothing yet.
SkyHigh was hosting this meeting, but I was leading it.
Executive Strategist and Project Manager.
Third day or not, they were about to understand exactly why I was hired.
I placed my folder on the table, cleared my throat, and every head in the room lifted.
"Good morning," I said, voice even and confident. "Mr. Sinclair won't be joining us today due to an urgent matter. I'll be overseeing the meeting in his place."
A ripple of interest moved through them.
Not shock—
not doubt—
just curiosity.
I clicked the remote.
The projector woke up with a soft hum.
"Today, we're reviewing structural revisions for the Marshall Urban Housing Project. This includes the foundation redesign, cost-efficiency updates, material substitution requests, and the new safety compliance standards required by the Lagos Building Regulation Board."
Now that got their attention.
Several of them sat straighter.
I walked to the head of the table, the project summary glowing behind me.
"Let's start."
I gestured to Emma—our structural engineer.
"Emma, walk us through the updated load-bearing analysis."
She nodded and stood.
"The initial projection underestimated stress distribution across the west block. We've recalculated the dead loads and live loads based on the two-level rooftop recreational deck. If we maintain the current column arrangement, the internal beams will fail to meet the safety margin."
Click.
New diagram.
I stepped in smoothly.
"This is why we're proposing a shift to reinforced concrete columns and a redistribution of the middle beams. It increases material cost by 6.5%, but it guarantees long-term stability and reduces maintenance expenses."
Marshall's Head Architect frowned.
"That affects our budget."
I held his gaze.
"Not as much as structural failure would."
Silence.
Then grudging acceptance.
"Proceed," he said.
I nodded to Michael—procurement analysis.
Michael tapped his tablet.
"If we substitute the original marble façade with composite stone panels, we cut cost by 14% without compromising aesthetics. They're weather-resistant and easier to replace."
One of the Marshall reps raised a hand.
"Durability?"
I answered before Michael could.
"Tested for thirty-year lifespan under tropical conditions. We already use it for SkyHigh's Midlands Project. It held up perfectly under stress simulation."
Their pens started moving.
Notes.
Agreement.
"Now," I said, clicking the next slide, "let's address the new safety requirements."
Sophie slid a document across the table.
"SkyHigh is implementing a revised emergency staircase design. The Building Regulation Board requires wider clearance and dual-access points for any residential building exceeding twelve floors."
Marshall's safety supervisor leaned forward.
"That pushes us into a redesign of the north corridor."
"Yes," I said, "but it also reduces evacuation time by 37%. And it'll be approved without delays. You know how tight the board has become since last year's tower scandal."
Grim nods all around.
Construction scandals leave long shadows.
Jonathan—risk management—cleared his throat.
"There's a flood-risk warning for the project site. The soil saturation levels are higher than the earlier survey indicated."
I stepped in smoothly again.
"To solve this, SkyHigh is recommending a deep foundation system using bored piles instead of shallow foundations. Higher cost upfront, but prevents settlement issues in the future."
Marshall's lead engineer leaned back, impressed.
"That's... unexpectedly proactive."
"SkyHigh doesn't do surprises," I replied.
"Any questions?" I asked.
A few hands went up.
"What's the revised timeline with the structural changes?"
"Six weeks added to the lower-level works, but we recover two weeks later with prefabricated components."
"Impact on the recreation deck?"
"Minimal."
"Who oversees site inspections?"
I lifted my hand slightly.
"I do."
That shut down every other question.
With the technical briefing done, the tension in the room softened.
"Before the Marshall team leaves," I said, "I want brief introductions within my team. As long as you're part of a project with me, I expect everyone to know who does what."
I gestured.
"Emma Collins — Structural Engineer. Eight years of high-rise experience."
"Michael Grant — Procurement and Cost Analyst."
"Jonathan Reed — Risk Assessment Lead."
"Sophie Hayes — Safety and Compliance Officer."
Marshall's representatives shook hands, taking mental notes—respectfully, not condescendingly.
Finally, their project director, Elijah Serrano, turned to me.
"Impressive leadership, Ms. Morgan. It's rare to see an executive strategist handle technical, safety, and financial angles so fluidly."
I offered a polite smile.
"That's the SkyHigh standard."
Inside?
A quiet warmth bloomed.
Validation tasted good.
As they gathered their things, Elijah paused.
"Does Mr. Sinclair want a follow-up Friday?"
"He'll confirm his availability shortly," I replied.
Professional.
Controlled.
Non-committal.
They left.
And the room exhaled with them.
I gathered my files, smoothing a hand over my hair.
I had just anchored one of SkyHigh's most important meetings.
Handled every challenge.
Reinforced my competence.
But even with all that—
The moment I returned to my seat, my phone lit up.
ALEX SINCLAIR
Come to my office. Now.
Four words.
Sharp.
Cold.
Inescapable.
My pulse kicked in my throat.
Because no matter how much I tried to push yesterday aside...
Alex Sinclair was still a storm I hadn't figured out how to survive.
He had nerve.
I inhaled sharply, grabbed my tablet, and headed toward the executive elevator.
Work mode.
Professional.
Controlled.
I repeated it like a mantra as the doors slid open.
The elevator ride felt longer than it should have.
My pulse wasn't fast, but it wasn't calm either—just... alert.
Prepared.
When I stepped into his office this time, he was there.
Leaning against his desk, sleeves rolled up, tie loosened, hands braced on either side of a stack of documents—as if he'd been waiting.
The door clicked shut behind me.
His eyes lifted.
Not cold.
Not unreadable.
Something else.
Something like... restraint.
"Zarah."
"Mr. Sinclair," I answered, professional, neutral.
Silence stretched, thick but not hostile.
More like... measured.
He pushed off the desk and stood fully upright.
"I owe you an apology."
My brows tugged together before I could help it.
He kept talking.
"I set a meeting I couldn't attend. You waited longer than you should have. That was disrespectful, and it won't happen again."
His voice was low—controlled, but not distant.
If anything, he sounded... sincere.
He looked at me directly.
"I should have informed you earlier," he added. "You deserved that courtesy."
I blinked once, absorbing the shock of the moment.
An apology.
From Alexander Sinclair.
Voluntary.
Unprompted.
And delivered like he actually meant every word.
"What happened?" I asked quietly before I could stop myself.
His jaw flexed—barely—but enough to tell me the subject was complicated.
"Something urgent," he said. "But that's not an excuse for how I handled it."
Another pause.
Then—
"Are you angry?"
I met his gaze.
Steady.
Even.
"No," I said honestly. "Just... surprised."
A faint huff left him. Almost a laugh. Almost.
"Understandable."
He stepped around his desk and pulled out a folder—my copy of the Marshall project notes.
Sarah must have given it to him.
"I read the report. You led the team," he said. "Exceptionally well."
My heart did a small, traitorous flip.
"Thank you," I replied.
He held my gaze again.
Longer this time.
Too long.
Then, quietly:
"I won't waste your time again."
Something in his tone...
Something in the way he said your time—like it mattered more than he wanted to admit—sent a strange warmth down my spine.
He cleared his throat.
"That will be all," he said, back to business. "Unless you have questions."
I did.
So many.
But none I was willing to ask.
"No, Mr. Sinclair," I said with a small nod. "We're good."
His eyes softened—just for a fraction of a second.
"Good."
I turned to leave, hand reaching for the door—
"Zarah."
I froze.
"Next time," he said, voice low, "if I tell you to come for a meeting... I'll be in it."
Something like a promise.
Something dangerously close to intention.
I swallowed.
Hard.
"Understood."
And I left his office with my pulse no longer steady—
no longer calm—
no longer neutral.
Because Alexander Sinclair didn't apologize.
Not to anyone.
But he apologized to me.