Beneath The Gold.

Chapter 3. "He Walked Into Me Like I Was Air".

POV; Aria Pov.

Back I went, come morning light.

Back I came, sure enough. A contract already signed, money taken, then hours sunk into Lena’s couch - practicing calm like my future depended on getting it right, because honestly, that was all there was left to try.

Finding me there, Lena stood by her doorway late that night - seven on the dot - the air thick with last light. A soaked shirt clung to my skin, papers tucked under one arm, silence stretching between us. Her look? That came after, when she tried putting words to what she saw: like someone mid-fall, unsure if flying was ever the plan.

That night, food came without needing to explain. A place to sleep showed up just like that. Too much curiosity never got in the way - because of this, Lena stood alone in who I’d let close. Quiet understanding made her different.

Before sunrise, I took her iron without asking. My second-best blouse waited on the bed - the favorite stayed wrinkled and wet, holding a ghost of Damien Cross’s plastic scent, a poor start for any work tie-up. Standing at Lena’s sink, I combed through tangles like each stroke meant survival, because looking unbreakable mattered most when walls loomed too high and doors judged before words came.

Today, I refused to shrink myself down. Size wasn’t an option anymore.

Seven forty-three showed up when I walked into Cross Tower. Early by nearly twenty minutes, since showing up on time wasn’t just expected - it matched how I already worked. Getting there ahead gave space to settle, to map corners and hallways while the place stayed quiet.

Yesterday’s lobby receptionist still hadn’t taken their spot behind the counter. In that seat instead: someone new, younger, eyes not quite trained in quiet judgment. My name came up on her display; she issued a guest pass, skipping the brief hesitation ritual the earlier worker always used.

Small mercies.

Forty-seven floors up, the ride ended with a soft chime. Quiet here today - just echoes, early light, fewer bodies moving through space. A handful already arrived before me, tucked behind panes of glass in tight clusters. Yesterday Maya showed me where to go: near Damien’s room, angled like someone meant to watch both ways down the hall. That spot waited. I stepped into it. Sat.

A bare surface stared back. Not just tidy - stripped down, like it had been scrubbed of life itself. Whoever worked here erased everything behind them. Not even a single pen remained. Nothing with a name on it. As if no person ever clocked in, pulled up a chair, moved papers around, breathed in this space.

It hit me - three helpers already, and less than twenty-four months gone by.

Down went my bag. Around me, things clicked into place - how the system logged in, how dates lined up on the calendar, where files settled on screen. This kind of thing came easy. Unfamiliar setups didn’t slow me; neither did shifting workplaces. Picking up the pattern fast wasn’t just helpful. It kept you around.

Before, I’d meant nothing to them. This time, staying invisible didn’t appeal.

Eight fifteen came with the calendar laid out, its shape clear now. Three timing clashes stood out - left hanging, never fixed. The file setup turned up next, arranged like someone carved their rules into stone without asking if anyone else could follow. It showed how one person’s logic became another’s maze.

I started reorganizing.

Forty minutes gone, ears covered by headphones, deep in the task like it was real and solid in my hands - then noise cut through from the hallway. Voices piling on top of each other. Quick steps echoing. That sharp rhythm only matters-people make when they rush somewhere decided.

Out came the headphones from my ears.

Down the hall, the lift doors slid apart. Out stepped a trio of suited men. They talked at once, sharp words cutting through air like they were paying for every second. Following close was another man, eyes on his phone. He walked quicker than the others yet seemed calm, unhurried

Damien Cross.

A different suit today, not the one from before. Grayish, without a tie, collar loose - looked unplanned but surely wasn’t. His words came out hushed, phone pressed to his ear, sound fading into the air between us. Not looking ahead, just walking forward like the world parts when someone steps into it too often. People such as Damien Cross simply pass through rooms untouched, objects shifting aside by habit more than choice.

There he came, right where I stood.

It hit me just a moment earlier than it missed him.

Up I got from the chair - just a knee-jerk urge to shift position - but the seconds didn’t line up right. As I stepped past the edge of the desk, he swung in from the hallway into the helper’s zone, both of us barreling forward, zero chance to brace, surprise hitting us at once.

Yesterday’s crash hit harder than the one before it.

Back then, just a brush against the frame of a door. Now, force met force - his shoulder slamming mine, the plastic bottle in his grip bursting open on my sleeve, liquid spreading down like it remembered yesterday. The wheels of my chair shot back, thudded into wood. Sheets I’d lined up scattered, drifting apart. My pen dropped, slid under without hesitation, moving like it knew better than to stay.

My fingers curled around the side of the table.

Didn't go down.

Barely.

Paused now, Damien Cross stood silent. In his grip, the phone stayed lit. Behind him, three men in suits had frozen too, their faces caught somewhere between notice and ignore - unsure if this moment demanded attention or dismissal. A quiet tension hung, neither advancing nor dissolving.

His eyes stopped on the wet spot spreading across my shirt. Then dropped to the scattered pages near his feet.

At me.

A shadow flicked over his features - quick, tangled, already vanished.

Early today,” he remarked.

My eyes stayed fixed on his face.

That's - " I paused. Began again. I held my tone steady, nothing showing off what raced behind my eyes. "Two times in two days you've dumped water on me."

"Yesterday was stationary. Today you moved into my path."

"I moved to get out of your path."

"Ineffectively."

I stared at him. Then his eyes met mine. Behind him, the trio suddenly became focused on different parts of the ceiling.

"Are you going to apologize?" I said.

"I apologized yesterday."

"Yesterday was three words delivered like a receipt."

A twitch tugged at the edge of his lips. Fleeting. Less than a breath. A flicker, really.

Here’s how it went. He spoke her name, steady on purpose, like someone holding back more than words. The request followed - swap out that shirt. Not a shout. Just there. A pause lived between each part. Nothing rushed. Everything measured. His voice? Flat but firm. Like weather you can’t argue with

"I don't have another blouse."

A pause.

For a second, he just stared, face hard to figure out - not exactly sorrow, not anything clear - before sliding a hand into his coat, pulling out a small rectangle of paper. He laid it down on the wood in front of me, silent. The air stayed still after that.

"There's a boutique on the ground floor," he said. "Tell them to charge the account." He was already moving past me toward his office. "The filing reorganization. Don't finish it."

Spinning around, I said, "What's stopping you?"

His feet slowed right there by the doorway of his workspace.

"Because I reorganized it that way intentionally," he said. "And you've been here forty minutes."

Inside he stepped. Shut behind him the door did.

Water dripped from my coat onto the floor, again. A silent pause hung there, thick. The card in my hand - black, blank of any name - felt heavy. He’d spoken minutes ago, calm, saying he saw everything I did long before stepping into view.

Far away, he kept an eye on how things were running.

From the second I took my seat, he was aware.

That odd jump in my chest showed up once more.

That card caught my eye.

There it stood, the door shut tight. A quiet moment passed before I noticed it again.

A voice stirred within, soft yet sharp, doing more harm than good.

Beneath the desk, I found my pen lying there.

Off I went, hunting down that little shop. The boutique was what I needed to locate.