The next morning, Cynthia was early.
Not because of work — but because she wanted to understand him.
Alexander. The man who made sarcasm an art form and kindness an accident.
He was already in his office when she arrived, tie loosened, jacket off, hair slightly messy — looking less like the terrifying CEO and more like a human being who hadn't slept much.
"Morning," she said carefully.
He looked up, surprised. "You're early."
"So are you."
"I own the building," he replied.
She smiled. "Still counts."
He said nothing for a moment, just studied her — as if trying to decide if her cheerfulness was contagious or dangerous.
"Coffee?" she offered, lifting a cup.
He raised an eyebrow. "Two sugars?"
"Exactly two. I'm learning."
He accepted it, and when their fingers brushed, she noticed something — his hand was shaking. Just slightly.
"You okay?" she asked softly.
"I'm fine." He sipped the coffee like it was a shield. "Just tired."
"From what?"
"Memories," he said before he could stop himself.
Cynthia blinked. "What kind of memories?"
"The kind that don't fade."
For a moment, the walls between them cracked. The air felt heavy — not awkward, just… real.
Then he smirked again, hiding it all behind his usual coldness.
"You should get back to work, Miss brooks Sentimentality doesn't pay your salary."
She smiled faintly. "Neither does pretending to be made of ice."
He looked at her — really looked — and for a heartbeat, she thought he might say something.
But the phone rang, sharp and loud, slicing through the quiet.
He answered, his expression instantly darkening.
"Yes. I told you not to call here." A pause. "If this gets out, we're both dead."
Cynthia froze. His tone — that edge of danger again.
When he hung up, his eyes met hers — and the warmth from seconds ago vanished like smoke.
"Forget what you heard," he said, voice low.
"But—"
"Forget it, Cynthia."
And just like that, the cold was back.
But this time, she knew — it wasn't because he didn't care.
It was because he did.
Cynthia couldn't focus the rest of the day.
Every word Alexander had said replayed in her mind like a broken record:
"If this gets out, we're both dead."
Dead? What could a man like him be involved in?
When the office finally emptied out that evening, she sat at her desk pretending to finish reports — but her eyes kept drifting to the glass wall of Alexander's office. The lights were off. His jacket was gone. He'd left.
Or so she thought.
Cynthia slipped into his office quietly, heart pounding in her throat. She wasn't sure what she was looking for — just something to explain that call.
His phone was still on the desk. Unlocked.
She hesitated for half a second before picking it up.
There were only two recent messages — both from a number saved as "Unknown".
"Don't let her find out"
"They're watching the company"
Before she could read more, the lights flicked on.
"Enjoying yourself, Miss Brooks?"
Her stomach dropped.
Alexander stood in the doorway, coat over one arm, his eyes like ice and fire all at once.
"I— I thought you left," she stammered.
"Clearly." He crossed the room slowly. "You're getting braver. Or stupider."
"I just wanted to know what's going on," she said, voice shaking. "You're hiding something. And if it's dangerous—"
"Dangerous?" He stopped inches from her, his voice dropping to a whisper. "You have no idea what dangerous means."
For a moment, silence.
Then, unexpectedly, he sighed — tired, almost human.
"Go home, Cynthia," he said quietly. "And do yourself a favor… stop asking questions that could get you killed."
She wanted to argue, but the look in his eyes — that flicker of real fear — froze her words.
As she walked out, her pulse still racing, she glanced back one last time.
Alexander was staring out the window, phone in hand, whispering something she could barely make out:
"I won't let them touch her."