Author's Preface
[Cont.]
[Annie]
I wake up at six to a string of ten missed calls and three lengthy texts from an unlisted number sent around three in the morning.
Oliver: The guards at your gate threatened to call the police on me, Annie. Is this what I am to you now? A criminal? I waited on the curb until dawn just to hear your voice.
Sitting on the edge of my bed, I read the words without a single spike of panic.
There is no rapid pulse, no desperate internal math trying to work out what response will soothe his ego or keep him from making a scene.
The exhaustion of the past few weeks simply clears, leaving behind a cold, sharp clarity.
I dial the number directly.
He answers on the first ring, his voice ragged. "Annie—"
"Oliver, listen to me very carefully," I say, my tone flat and entirely devoid of heat.
"If you come near my workplace, contact my phone from another number, or step foot anywhere near my apartment complex again, I will file a formal police report for harassment with the main gate's security footage attached. Do not call me again."
Before he can launch into a rehearsed plea, I hang up, block the number, and delete the call log.
[ *** ]
When I pull my door open twenty minutes later, keycard in hand, Kai’s door swings open at the exact same moment.
He steps into the hallway wearing a dark grey suit jacket, holding his morning coffee.
His eyes brush over my face, searching for any lingering panic from last night.
I adjust my bag strap, holding his gaze. "It's handled."
Kai looks at me for a beat, a faint, approving tilt at the corner of his mouth replacing the tension in his jaw.
He doesn't ask for details or offer any unsolicited praise.
"Let's go," he says simply, stepping beside me as we walk toward the elevator.
[ *** ]
By ten in the morning, the conference room on the ninth floor feels like a pressure cooker.
The board presentation for Project Horizon is in full swing.
Executive directors sit along the heavy oak table, reviewing the printed ledgers while Amanda nervously shifts in her seat beside me.
At the head of the table stands Kai, presenting the macro projections with effortless authority.
"The third-quarter adjustments reflect our primary cross-border accounts," Kai says, gesturing toward the screen. "We've re-indexed the regional tax compliance under section 4B to align with operational standards."
Director Lance, a senior board member known for being ruthless with junior analysts, leans forward, tapping his pen against his printed folder.
"Section 4B," Lance interrupts, his voice sharp. "The last compliance summary flagged a twelve percent variance in cross-border tariffs for the European sector. Who verified these ledger numbers?"
Amanda freezes beside me, pulling in a sharp breath.
The room goes quiet, all eyes shifting to the end of the table.
I look toward Kai.
A manager trying to protect his own record might step in and take the question himself.
A micromanaging boss might talk over his subordinate.
Kai does neither.
He turns his head slightly, his eyes meeting mine across the long table, giving me a subtle, clear nod of complete trust.
I sit up straight and pull my microphone forward.
"I verified the numbers, Director Lance," I say, my voice carrying cleanly across the room. "The twelve percent variance you're referencing was based on the outdated quarterly model under section 4C. The updated data under 4B accounts for the July tariff exemptions, bringing the actual variance down to zero point four percent."
Lance glances down at his folder, flipping back a page.
He frowns, cross-referencing the ledger line I cited, before settling back into his leather chair without a rebuttal.
As I step back from the microphone, Kai seamlessly picks up the thread, continuing the slide transition without missing a beat.
There is no dramatic handover, no awkward pause—just a smooth, synchronized execution between the two of us that leaves the board nodding in agreement.
[ *** ]
By six in the evening, the boardroom is empty, the final approval signatures are filed, and the high-stakes tension that carried us through the day finally drains away, leaving a deep, heavy exhaustion in its place.
When we return to our residential building around seven, the main floor corridor is dimly lit, illuminated only by the low glow of wall sconces.
"Scheduled breaker maintenance," the front desk guard informs us as we step out of the elevator onto our floor. "Power inside the units is fine, but the hallway circuits will be resetting for the next twenty minutes."
Kai pulls his keycard out, stopping outside his door.
Across the hall, I’m balancing a paper bag of takeout noodles against my hip while trying to input my door code in the dim light.
"Annie," Kai says.
I look over my shoulder.
His apartment door stands open, revealing a warm, soft light from his living room lamp, powered by his unit's uninterrupted circuit.
"You're going to drop your dinner," he says, stepping back from his doorway. "Bring it inside."
I hesitate for a fraction of a second before lowering my hand from the keypad and walking across the narrow corridor into his apartment.
His living space is clean, quiet, and minimalist—hardwood floors, a deep charcoal sofa, and a low glass coffee table neatly stacked with architectural journals and financial reports.
I've already seen this before but I notice more now.
I realise how it reflects him completely: uncluttered, structured, and immaculate.
Except for one new thing.
Sitting prominently on the corner of his polished kitchen island is a giant, neon-pink ceramic mug shaped like a cartoon cat, complete with painted whiskers and a handle shaped like a curved tail.
I freeze in the entryway, looking from the sleek black granite counter to the ridiculous pink cat.
Kai sets his briefcase down, unbuttons his collar, and notices me staring.
He stops mid-motion, his expression remaining entirely deadpan.
"Don't," he says flatly.
A breathless laugh bubbles up in my throat before I can stop it. "Kai... what is that?"
"It was a gift," he replies, walking past it to grab two glasses from the cabinet.
"From who? An eight-year-old?" I step closer, setting my takeout container down and inspecting the mug. "It doesn't match a single item in this entire apartment. You have minimalist charcoal furniture and a neon cartoon cat."
"It holds an entire pot of coffee," Kai says, pouring cold water into two glasses without looking at me. "It's functional."
"It has ears, Kai."
A quiet, reluctant curve appears at the corner of his mouth. "Are you going to eat your noodles, or are you going to interrogate my glassware?"
"I'm keeping my eye on the cat," I tease, pulling out one of the high leather stools and sitting down.
The laughter eases the air between us, but as Kai leans against the counter across from me, the room settles into a different kind of quiet.
He reaches over to unbutton his cuffs, rolling his grey dress shirt sleeves up to his forearms.
As he pulls the fabric back, my eyes catch on something resting near his duffel bag in the open entryway closet—a pair of heavy leather boxing wraps, worn thin at the edges, resting beside a pair of dark training gloves.
I look back at his arms.
In the warm lamp light, I notice the faint, pale lines of old scars running across the knuckles of his right hand.
I wonder why I am only spotting these scars now.
"You box?" I ask, nodding toward the closet.
Kai’s fingers pause briefly on his sleeve before he smooths down the rolled fabric. "Used to."
I look at his neat posture, his clean suit, and his calm, deliberate movements. "You don't look like someone who used to box."
"That's probably the point," he says quietly.
Before I can ask anything more, he shifts, reaching for his glass of water, effectively closing the subject.
The brief glimpse behind his wall disappears as quickly as it came.
We eat in a comfortable rhythm, the easy banter lingering, but as the quiet stretches on, the room fills with a slow, heavy awareness.
My eyes fall to his hands as he sets his chopsticks down, tracing the sharp line of his wrist where his sleeves are rolled up.
A sudden heat flares in my chest as the memory flashes vividly in my mind—of me reaching out, threading my fingers into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulling him down to kiss him, catching him entirely off-guard, his breath hitching in utter shock before he could process what was happening.
Kai turns his head, catching my gaze.
He doesn't look away.
His eyes stay on mine, steady and dark, the silence between us suddenly thick with the memory of that exact moment.
As I reach into my bag for my phone, my elbow lightly brushes a heavy black leather-bound volume sitting on the end of the counter—a commemorative retrospective book from a high-profile corporate gala held years ago.
The book tips slightly, sliding open to a glossy center spread.
My eyes drop automatically to the page.
It’s a formal press photograph from an elite industry summit.
Standing among high-ranking executives in tailored tuxedos is a younger Kai.
He isn't standing in the background like a student intern or a junior analyst.
He is positioned squarely near the center of the frame, surrounded by board members, holding himself with the exact same quiet weight he carries now.
The photograph simply doesn't fit the man I thought I know.
I look up from the page, my eyes meeting Kai’s.
He hasn't moved, but his gaze follows the trajectory from the open book back to my face.
He knows I saw it.
My phone lights up on the island between us.
It’s a text notification from Kenny that flashes across the lock screen:
Henry and I finally landed in London! Our firms sorted apartments for us, and his place is apparently huge. He said to remind you about the book.
Kai’s eyes flick down to the screen, catching Henry’s name in the preview before returning to mine.
"You're still in touch with Kenny?" he asks softly.
"Yeah," I say, picking up the phone. "Since she and Henry moved overseas for their careers, we mostly just text online."
Kai nods once, turning to pick up his water glass.
"You should get some rest," he says quietly. "It's been a long day."
"Yeah," I say, stepping back from the counter. "Goodnight, Kai."
"Goodnight, Annie."
I step across the hall to my apartment, the door clicking shut behind me, leaving me standing in the dark with a lingering warmth on my skin and a whole new set of questions.
Comments