Healing His Shadows

Chapter 9: Fletcher’s First Warning

-POV Elara

The office air felt heavier than usual that morning, like the whole building knew I was running on fumes. I’d barely slept after Gloria’s video and Gelano’s weak “cuma sekali lagi” from the night before. My eyes were puffy, skin pale, and no amount of coffee could fix the knot in my stomach. I dragged myself to my desk anyway, blouse slightly wrinkled, skirt a little loose from how much weight I’d lost worrying about this mess. The diamond ring kept catching the overhead lights, throwing tiny fake sparks across my keyboard. I hated looking at it now.

I was halfway through the same report for the third time when heavy footsteps stopped right in front of my desk. Action beat—I looked up slow, heart already kicking up.

Fletcher Draven stood there, black suit sharp as ever, arms crossed, gray eyes scanning my face like he could read every crack I was trying to hide. No hello. No small talk. Just that quiet, intense stare that made the rest of the open floor disappear.

“You look like hell, Dr. Hart,” he said, voice low and calm. Straight to the point.

I forced a small smile, pushing a strand of hair behind my ear. “Long night. Nothing new. Just… hospital stuff.”

He didn’t buy it. Of course he didn’t. Rhetorical trap—he tilted his head slightly, eyes narrowing just a fraction. “Hospital stuff? Or something you don’t want to talk about in front of the whole floor?”

I looked back down at my screen, fingers hovering uselessly over the keys. Delayed reaction. It took me a beat too long to answer, and he caught it. He always caught everything.

“Come to my office,” he said. Not a question. A quiet command wrapped in that tone that made it impossible to refuse.

I stood up, smoothing my skirt, and followed him down the hall. My heels clicked too loud on the marble, echoing like they were announcing my mess to everyone. The glass walls made me feel exposed, like the whole company could see how close I was to falling apart. When we stepped into his corner office, he closed the door with a soft click. The city skyline stretched out behind his massive desk, but all I could focus on was him.

“Sit.”

I sat. The leather chair felt too big, swallowing me whole. Fletcher stayed standing for a moment, then moved behind his desk, but instead of sitting he leaned over it, palms flat on the wood, bringing us closer. Too close.

His hand lifted slowly. Fingers hovering just above my cheek, near the corner of my eye where the puffiness was worst. Almost-touch. The heat from his skin brushed my face even though he wasn’t making contact. My breath caught. I could smell his cologne—woodsy, dark, expensive—cutting through the faint antiseptic still clinging to me from the morning rounds. My body leaned in a fraction before my brain caught up. I stayed there, frozen, letting the almost-touch burn on my skin.

“You’ve been crying,” he said quietly. His fingers stayed hovering, so close I could feel the tiny current of air between us. “Who did this to you?”

I swallowed hard. The words stuck in my throat. Gelano’s desperate grip last night, Gloria’s video playing on loop, the hotel receipt still burning a hole in my bag—everything crashed together. I blinked fast, trying to hold it in, but my eyes burned anyway.

Fletcher’s hand moved lower, fingers now floating just above the side of my neck, right where my pulse was hammering like crazy. Still not touching. But the promise of it made every nerve ending wake up. “Tell me, little girl. Who made you cry?”

The nickname landed soft but heavy. Protective. Daddy care mixed with that quiet mafia power. My eyes stung worse. I looked up at him, really looked, and for one stupid second I wanted to spill everything—the cheating, the gaslighting, the way I felt like I was drowning in my own life.

His fingers inched a millimeter closer. The almost-touch on my neck felt hotter than any real hand ever had. “I can make problems disappear, Elara. You know that.”

The rhetorical trap was wide open. He was waiting for me to step in. To admit what was breaking me. To choose his world over the lie I was still clinging to with both hands.

I opened my mouth. Nothing came out at first. Just a shaky breath. The delayed reaction hit again—I glanced at the door like Gelano might walk in any second, then back to Fletcher’s face. Steady. Patient. Dangerous.

“Siapa yang bikin kamu menangis, little girl?”

The question hung between us, low and rough, pulling at every raw edge I had left. His fingers stayed hovering there, so close I could almost feel them on my skin. One tiny movement and the almost-touch would become real. My shoulder tilted toward his hand without permission. My pulse jumped under his gaze. The cologne, the heat, the way he looked at me like I was worth protecting—it all mixed together until my head spun.

I didn’t answer. Not yet. But the ring on my finger suddenly felt like it belonged to someone I didn’t recognize anymore. The weight of it, the sparkle, the lie it represented—it all pressed down harder than ever.

Fletcher didn’t push. He just stayed there, hand hovering, eyes locked on mine like he had all the time in the world and all the power to wait me out. The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant hum of the office outside his door.

Outside, life kept moving. Inside this glass box, everything felt suspended. My breath, his fingers, the truth I was too scared to say out loud.

The almost-touch on my neck kept burning.

And for the first time, I wondered how much longer I could keep pretending I didn’t want him to close that last centimeter.

End of Chapter 9