(Ethan's POV)
Indifference doesn't come naturally.
It's a discipline. A daily practice. You learn how to maintain it the way other people maintain faith or fitness. You feed it every time an impulse rises, every time memory tries to claw its way back. It becomes a habit that feels like armor.
I'd learned that long before my name was on the building, long before power and performance became the only things that made sense.
Indifference is how you survive.
But it's also how you lose people without realizing they're already gone.
Amelia Cross walked into the conference room at nine on the dot, and the façade I'd been polishing for a week nearly cracked at the edges.
She wore navy. Minimal makeup. No jewelry. Hair pulled back with a precision that dared anyone to underestimate her. She didn't try to draw attention, which was exactly why she did. People adjusted unconsciously. The tone of the room shifted the moment she entered.
"Good morning," she said.
Her voice was even, professional, impersonal. The kind of tone that lets no one in.
"Morning," I managed.
The lie of indifference settled back into place. That was the problem with it—it could always be rebuilt if you worked hard enough.
The meeting unfolded by the numbers. Kingston's projections. The funding gaps. Legal updates that should have been routine. Amelia took control of the room without trying to. She questioned every assumption, her tone polite but sharp.
"These figures are inflated," she said, pointing at the chart. "You're assuming compliance that hasn't been earned."
"You're assuming resistance," I said.
"I'm assuming accountability."
Her gaze lifted to mine. Calm, unflinching.
The kind of look that once made me forget every argument I'd meant to win.
I looked away first.
By midday, indifference felt like a structure held together by wires. I noticed things I shouldn't. The quiet concentration when she reviewed a clause. The small pause before she spoke, like she weighed every syllable.
The way her fingers tightened briefly when someone interrupted. She wasn't fragile. She was contained. And containment always carries pressure.
"You're distracted," my COO said during a break.
"I'm focused," I replied.
He raised a brow. "On what?"
"On what matters."
He let it go. Smart man.
Amelia left the room before I did. I watched her cross the corridor—head high, pace steady. The same way she'd left eight years ago. Not a single word of goodbye. No scene. Just silence.
For years, I'd told myself she left because she couldn't handle the pace. That she didn't understand what it took to build an empire from the ground up.
The truth was simpler. She left because I never stopped to ask what she needed me to slow down for.
The next complication arrived mid-afternoon.
Kingston's legal counsel requested a private session—with her, not me.
I felt something sharp move under my ribs. "Why?"
"They said it concerns prior documentation," she said.
"I'll sit in."
She shook her head. "They asked for me."
"This affects Blackwood Enterprises."
"And my past involvement," she replied, her tone level. "Which you once asked me to keep invisible."
Her precision left no room for argument.
I looked at her for a long moment, then said, "Go ahead. I'll wait outside."
The door closed behind her, and the stillness it left behind hit harder than I expected.
Five minutes passed. Then ten. Twenty. I paced. Checked emails I didn't read.
Watched the city move through glass and tried to convince myself I wasn't waiting for something more than information.
When the door finally opened, Amelia stepped out. Composed. Controlled. But her face was pale, the kind of pale that comes from pressure, not fear.
"They're reopening the ethics review," she said. "A full audit of Kingston's original dissolution."
"That was sealed," I said.
"Nothing stays buried forever."
My first thought should have been damage control. Lawyers. Statements. Protocols. Instead, I felt one cold, clear realization.
I could lose her again.
"This could implicate you," I said.
"And you," she answered softly.
Her calm unnerved me.
"Why aren't you shaken?" I asked.
She met my eyes and gave a faint, almost sad smile. "Because I've already lived through the worst version of this story."
For a second, I couldn't breathe.
Lucas.
The name didn't need saying. It lived between us now, a shadow neither of us could banish. His eyes. His quiet intensity.
The way he studied the world like he was preparing for it to change.
I'd been pretending not to see it, because pretending meant I didn't have to admit what it implied.
That evening, rain started early. It fell in sheets against the glass of my office, muting the skyline until the city disappeared into gray.
Amelia was still working two doors down, her light visible through the narrow pane of glass. I watched her for a moment, then crossed the hall.
"You should go," I said. "The weather's getting worse."
"I will," she said without looking up. "When I finish."
"Let me drive you."
"No."
The answer came too quickly.
"Why?" I asked.
She closed her laptop. Her hands were steady, but her voice wasn't soft. "Because every time I let you make something easier, I pay for it later."
The honesty cut clean.
"You think I'd use this," I said.
"I think you'd justify it," she replied.
That stopped me.
For a moment, we just stood there, the air thick with everything unsaid.
"You don't get to decide when I'm allowed to matter again," she said finally.
The sentence landed like a blow I didn't try to deflect.
She began gathering her things. Papers, keys, composure.
"Amelia," I said quietly.
She paused, half-turned.
"I never stopped thinking about you," I said. "I just convinced myself it didn't matter."
Her expression flickered, just once. "And now?"
"Now," I said, "I know that was the lie."
Something fragile trembled in the air between us. Memory. Want. Regret. The kind of pull that ruins rational thought.
Then her phone rang.
"Lucas," she said, checking the screen. "I have to go."
She brushed past me and was gone before I could speak again.
Seconds later, my own phone buzzed.
Subject: Ethics Review Findings — Immediate Action Required
I opened the message. Read the first line. Then the next.
And understood.
Indifference hadn't protected me at all.
It had only postponed the moment when I would finally have to choose between what I built and what I broke.
Outside, thunder rolled through the city. Inside, the only sound was the soft hum of the building that still bore my name.
For the first time in years, I wasn't sure I wanted it.