Chapter 4: After hours
978 Words
“You should go home.”
Lyra didn’t look up from her screen. “So should you.”
Dominic stopped just inside his office doorway, jacket slung over his shoulder, tie loosened. It was the first time she’d seen him slightly undone, and the sight made her chest tighten.
“It’s past nine,” he said.
“I know.”
“You’ve been here since six.”
“I know.”
He walked closer, footsteps measured. “You don’t get paid overtime.”
“I didn’t stay for the money.”
“That’s a mistake.”
“No,” she said quietly. “It’s a choice.”
Silence stretched between them, heavy and familiar now.
“Why do you make it so difficult to dismiss you?” he asked.
“Because you don’t actually want to.”
She finally looked at him.
Their eyes locked—and something unspoken passed between them. Recognition. Understanding. Danger.
“You’re assuming too much,” he said.
“I’m observing,” she replied.
“That’s becoming a problem.”
“For you?”
“For both of us.”
She saved her work and shut down her computer, standing slowly. “Then I’ll leave.”
He didn’t move.
Neither did she.
The office lights dimmed automatically, bathing the room in softer shadows. Outside the glass walls, the city glowed—alive, indifferent, watching.
“You didn’t answer my question earlier,” he said.
“Which one?”
“Why you stay.”
Lyra hesitated. Then, carefully, “Because I recognize exhaustion when I see it.”
“That’s not your responsibility.”
“No. But it’s my choice.”
“You’re crossing into territory that doesn’t belong to you.”
She took a step closer. “You let me.”
His jaw tightened.
“You don’t understand what you’re doing,” he said.
“I understand exactly what I’m doing,” she replied. “I’m treating you like a person, not a position.”
“That’s dangerous.”
“For someone like you?”
“For someone like you.”
She searched his face. “Why?”
“Because people who see me don’t stay.”
Her heart softened painfully. “That’s not a rule. That’s a wound.”
His eyes darkened.
“You think you can fix me.”
“No,” she said gently. “I think you don’t need fixing. You need rest.”
He laughed once—low, humorless. “Rest is a luxury.”
“So is loneliness.”
The words landed harder than she intended.
He turned away abruptly, walking to the window. “You should go.”
“I will,” she said. “After one thing.”
“What?”
“You haven’t eaten.”
He closed his eyes briefly.
“I’m ordering food,” she continued. “You can fire me tomorrow.”
“You assume I’ll eat.”
“You will.”
She reached for her phone.
“Lyra,” he warned.
She looked at him. “Dominic.”
The use of his first name cracked something open.
“Don’t,” he said quietly.
“Why?”
“Because if you say it again, I won’t stop you.”
Her breath hitched. “Stop me from what?”
“From getting too close.”
She lowered her phone slowly. “What happens if I do?”
His voice dropped. “Everything changes.”
The delivery arrived twenty minutes later.
They ate at the small meeting table, city lights flickering beyond the glass. The silence between them was different now—not cold, but cautious.
“You grew up poor,” he said suddenly.
She froze. “How do you know that?”
“You don’t waste food. You don’t complain about hours. And you flinch when people raise their voices.”
Her fingers tightened around her fork. “You’re observant.”
“You hide it well.”
“I had to.”
“Who hurt you?”
She swallowed. “My father.”
His gaze sharpened. “In what way?”
“Expectation,” she said. “Nothing I did was ever enough.”
He nodded slowly. “That kind of damage stays.”
“Yes.”
“It teaches silence.”
“And obedience.”
“And fear.”
She met his eyes. “And resilience.”
Something shifted in his expression—respect, perhaps.
After dinner, the storm outside worsened. Rain lashed against the windows, thunder rumbling low.
“You shouldn’t drive in this,” he said.
“I’ll be fine.”
“Stay.”
The word hung between them.
“Stay… here?” she asked.
“In the building,” he clarified quickly. “There’s a guest suite.”
Her heart raced. “That might not be appropriate.”
He smiled faintly. “Everything about this stopped being appropriate days ago.”
She hesitated.
“I trust you,” she said finally.
His smile vanished.
“That’s the most dangerous thing you could’ve said.”
He walked her to the private elevator.
“If you change your mind—” she began.
“I won’t,” he said.
The doors closed.
But as they descended, Lyra realized something unsettling.
He hadn’t said goodnight.
She didn’t sleep.
Neither did he.
Dominic stood in his penthouse, city lights reflecting off the glass, replaying her voice in his mind.
I trust you.
Trust was fragile.
Trust was a weapon.
And Lyra Hayes had handed it to him without realizing how deeply it could cut.
Back in the guest suite, Lyra stared at the ceiling, heart pounding.
She had crossed a line.
No—she had walked straight over it.
And the worst part?
She didn’t regret it.
Because somewhere between silence and rain, between control and care—
She had started to fall.
And Dominic Ashford was already standing on the edge.
- Writer
