Author's Preface
[Annie]
Kai stands stiffly beside the control panel, his chin slightly lifted, dark eyes fixed entirely on the brushed steel doors of the elevator.
I keep my back pressed against the handrail, my fingers white-knuckling the leather strap of my purse.
The lingering haze of the beer has evaporated completely, leaving behind a cold, hollow knot of mortification right in the pit of my stomach.
When the doors slide open on the eighth floor, the thick carpet muffles our steps.
Kai carries my small carry-on bag by the top handle, setting it down precisely two inches from my apartment door before straightening up.
"Rest up, Annie," he says, his voice level, smooth, and stripped clean of the raw, gravelly edge it carried on the dance floor an hour ago. "I'll see you in the office tomorrow."
"Thank you for the drive, Mr. Sterlings," I reply, my throat dry, the formal title tasting heavy on my tongue.
He gives a single, curt nod, turns on his heel, and walks down the quiet corridor toward his unit.
I press my doorbell with a trembling hand before my mom opens the door and I shut it behind me.
The second the deadbolt clicks, my knees give out slightly, and I slide down against the wood, catching my breath.
My skin still feels hot where his thumb brushed my cheek.
Every time I shut my eyes, the image flashes back with brutal clarity: the deep crimson light of the club, the heavy thud of his pulse under my palms, my hands drawing him in by his collar, and his mouth hovering a fraction of an inch from mine before his entire posture froze and he pulled away.
He pulled away because you were slurring , I tell myself, digging my palms into my eyes.
He's your manager, and you pulled him in for a kiss.
"Are you ok?" My mom's voice disrupts my thoughts.
"Yeah," I reply, standing up and heading to my room. "Just had a little beer."
I close my door before my mom starts attacking me with questions.
[ *** ]
By 8:30 AM Monday, the marketing department is buzzing with the usual start-of-week chaos—phones ringing, printers whirring, and steam rising from paper coffee cups.
I sit at my desk with my back pressed against the backrest, my eyes darting toward the corner office every time the glass doors swing open.
At 9:00 AM sharp, Kai walks in wearing a black suit, pristine white collared shirt, his silver-rimmed glasses sitting neatly on the bridge of his nose.
He carries a leather folio under his arm, his stride even and measured.
The man who let his hands rest against my waist in the dark is gone.
In his place is the immaculate, unshakeable Marketing Manager who runs quarterlies without missing a beat.
He steps past my row of cubicles, dropping a stack of revised quarterly targets onto Chris's desk. "Chris, review the regional budget shifts before eleven. We need the final numbers for the director's call."
"On it, Mr. Sterlings," Chris nods.
Kai doesn't glance at my desk.
He doesn't pause, he doesn't look over, and he doesn't slow his pace.
The aggressive, hyper-critical energy from last week has completely vanished—there are no sharp revisions on my drafts, no passive-aggressive remarks about my schedule.
Instead, he treats me with a polished, impenetrable neutrality, as if the entire trip to Northeast City was wiped from his memory.
[ *** ]
By 4:00 PM, the silence is driving a dull ache behind my temples.
I print the final compliance summary, place it in a blue folder, and walk down the glass corridor.
I tap twice on his open door.
Kai looks up from his monitor, his expression entirely neutral. "Yes?"
"The signed delegate logs from the conference, Mr. Sterlings," I say, stepping in to set the folder on the corner of his desk.
He reaches out, his long fingers carefully gripping the edge of the folder without brushing mine. "Thank you. Make sure the digital copies are archived in the department drive before you head out."
"I'll do that now."
I stand there for a second, watching his hand uncap a fountain pen.
His posture is perfectly composed, his breathing slow and steady.
There isn't a single crack in his armor.
"Anything else, Annie?" he asks, his eyes rising to meet mine.
They are calm, clear, and completely unreadable.
"No, Mr. Sterlings," I say, straightening my shoulders. "Have a good evening."
I walk out of his office, the heavy glass door clicking shut behind me.
[ *** ]
As I step out of the lobby into the cool street air, my phone vibrates in my palm.
Oliver: Hi Annie! Just checking in. Are you free for dinner tonight? Let me know!
I pause on the concrete pavement, looking up toward the eighth floor.
Through the floor-to-ceiling glass of the corner office, Kai's tall silhouette stands motionless by the window, his hands tucked into his trousers pockets as he looks down at the avenue.
I turn back to my phone, type a quick confirmation to Oliver, and head home.
[ *** ]
The lock on my apartment door has barely turned when the noise inside hits me.
My grandmother is sitting on the sofa adjusting a freshly arranged vase of lilies, while my mother steps out of the kitchen, her eyes sweeping over my wrinkled blazer and tired face with immediate disapproval.
It's been more than a week now since they have been staying at my place, and their presence instantly fills every inch of the living room.
"Annie! Finally!" my mother says, walking straight over and taking my purse from my hand.
"Oliver texted to say you two rescheduled for tonight. He's picking you up in an hour, so why are you still in your work clothes?"
"Mom, I just finished a ten-hour shift, I'm exhausted—"
"Nonsense," my grandmother interjects from the couch, smoothing down her skirt and looking at me over her reading glasses. "Oliver is a polite, hardworking young man who actually respects family. You can't keep putting him off."
"I laid out the navy silk dress on your bed," my mother adds firmly, turning me by the shoulders toward the hallway. "Go wash your face, put on some lipstick, and treat this date properly."
I let out a defeated sigh, looking between the two of them before heading toward my bedroom. "Fine. I'll go."
[ *** ]
An hour later, Oliver is waiting in the lobby, opening the passenger door of his car as I step outside.
The quiet, low-lit ambiance of the cinema restaurant does little to ease the lingering tension in my shoulders.
Oliver sits across from me, sipping his sparkling water while chatting easily about the indie film we just watched.
He booked back-row seats, ordered the low-sugar snacks I prefer, and kept his voice soft throughout the evening.
He is attentive, steady, and entirely safe.
My entire body instinctively goes rigid, when he reaches across the small table to rest his hand near mine and his fingers lightly brush my wrist.
My mind flashes instantly to Sunday night— the raw, suffocating heat of Kai's long fingers pressed firmly against my waist, the heavy weight of his pulse under my palms, and the agonizing millimeter of space before he pulled away.
Oliver's touch is gentle and respectful, but it feels faint, almost weightless, against the memory of his grip still lingering on my skin.
He stops mid-sentence. He doesn't push.
He simply pulls his hand back, resting it on his napkin, a subtle flicker of disappointment passing through his eyes before he offers a polite, understanding smile.
[ *** ]
The drive back to my apartment building is quiet and comfortable.
When Oliver pulls up along the curb outside my building's main entrance, he shifts the car into park and unbuckles his seatbelt.
As I reach for the door handle, Oliver pulls a thick, white envelope from his coat pocket, holding it out to me. "Before you go... I wanted to give you this."
I blink, looking at the heavy paper in his hand.
"What is this?"
"Open it."
I unseal the envelope and pull out two thick, metallic delegate passes stamped with the crest of the Global Brand Strategy Summit—an exclusive, invitation-only conference held once a year for senior directors and top industry executives.
Tucked behind them is a confirmed registration for an intimate workshop led by the global head of consumer marketing.
I stare at my name printed neatly on the delegate line, my breath catching in my throat. "Oliver... these are usually off-limits to junior staff. How did you even get these?"
"My cousin handles the regional venue sponsorships for the summit," Oliver explains, scratching the back of his neck, his tone completely free of arrogance.
"You mentioned in passing weeks ago how much you wanted to hear their head strategist speak, but that your department didn't have the budget to send junior executives. I asked him to pull some strings and get you a private delegate pass."
He offers a quiet, earnest smile.
"I know I can be a little eager sometimes, and I know your family pushes us together a lot. But I see how hard you work at your firm, Annie, and how much you care about building your career. I just wanted to give you something that actually matters to you."
I look down at the heavy gold lettering on the passes, the crisp edges smooth under my thumb.
There is no effortless, electric friction here like there is with Kai—no breathlessness, no thrilling danger.
But there is no gamesmanship either.
No shifting boundaries, no calculated distance, and no lingering doubts about where I stand .
Oliver listened to me when I thought no one was paying attention, and he opened a door for me simply because he cared.
A heavy, grounding weight settles in my chest.
I don't feel that wild, dizzying pulse, but looking at his quiet smile, I realize how exhausting it is to keep chasing something that burns me.
He deserves an honest chance.
Maybe it's time I stop confusing chaos for intensity.
Oliver steps out to open my door, walking me up the short flight of stone steps toward the building's glass entryway.
He pauses under the warm awning light, shifting his weight nervously with his hands in his pockets. "Annie... I know tonight was long, but... can I give you a hug?"
I look at his gentle, hesitant eyes.
The tightness in my chest eases, and I give a small, appreciative nod. "Yeah, Oliver. Of course."
He steps in warmly, wrapping both arms fully around my shoulders.
I keep my posture slightly restrained, lifting my arms to give him a brief, gentle pat on the upper back—warm enough to be genuine, but maintaining a subtle, respectful space between us.
As I start to pull back, the heavy glass door leading out from the courtyard pushes open with a quiet latch click.
Footsteps echo against the stone pavers as Kai steps out into the cool night air.
He's dressed down for the night in a dark t-shirt and loose trousers, his hair unstyled and resting softly over his forehead.
He has an unlit cigarette between his lips and a heavy silver lighter in his hand, clearly stepping out for a late smoke.
He takes two steps onto the far end of the entryway walkway before his eyes sweep upward and land on us.
Kai stops dead at the opposite end of the pavement.
His jaw shifts so tight, the muscle twitches along his cheekline.
Under the warm, ambient glow of the porch lamps, his eyes lock straight onto Oliver's hands resting on my coat.
Our eyes connect across the space separating us.
Neither of us moves.
Kai strikes the wheel of his lighter, slow and deliberate.
A tiny yellow flame erupts between his hands, catching the sharp angles of his bare face and illuminating the cold, dangerous edge in his stare.
He holds my gaze right through the fire, brings the tip of the flame to the cigarette, and draws in a deep, heavy breath.
The tip ignites into a bright amber glow.
He snaps the lighter shut with a harsh clack, exhaling a thick plume of gray smoke into the night air, his eyes never leaving mine for a single second.
Oliver steps back fully with a soft, clueless smile, completely oblivious to my manager standing on the other side of the courtyard path. "Goodnight, Annie."
I can barely force my mouth to move.
"Goodnight, Oliver," I whisper, my pulse hammering against my ribs as I watch Kai lower the cigarette, his burning gaze tracking my every step as I head toward the glass doors.