Under his eyes
1097 Words
I almost turned back at the door.
Not in a dramatic way. I didn’t spin around or gasp or anything movie-worthy. It was quieter than that. Just my hand hovering near the glass entrance a second too long, my reflection staring back at me like it was waiting to see which version of me would win.
The one who investigates monsters.
Or the one who realizes she just walked into one’s house.
The doors slid open before I decided.
Of course they did.
I took a deep breath nervously.
Cold air kissed my face, carrying that scent every rich building seems to have. Clean. Filtered. Expensive without trying. My shoes touched the floor and the sound was soft, swallowed instantly, like the place didn’t allow echoes.
The lobby was huge but not loud about it. No giant logos. No gold. Just space. Light. Silence that felt curated.
A woman behind the front desk looked up.
She didn’t smile. But her eyes sharpened in recognition. “Mira.” she said.
Not a question.
My stomach did a small drop. “Yes.”
“We’ve been expecting you.”
There it was again.
That word didn’t feel welcoming. It felt… scheduled. Like I had already happened.
She slid a tablet toward me. “Sign in please.”
My fingers felt clumsy holding the stylus. My name looked strange written there. Too small. Too ordinary for a place like this.
When I looked up again, a man in a grey suit was already standing at the side of the desk. I didn't hear him walk up.
“This way,” he said. He hands directing me towards the elevator.
No small talk, No handshake, Just movement.
I followed.
The elevator ride was too quiet.
Not awkward quiet just controlled quiet. The kind that makes you aware of your own body like it’s doing something wrong.
I could hear my breathing. The tiny click of my throat when I swallowed. The faint brush of fabric when I shifted my weight.
I stared at the glowing numbers above the door.
“Does he always send cars for employees?” I asked, trying to sound casual.
“Yes.”
That was it.
I almost laughed. Short, breathy. “Does he always know when they arrive too?”
The man didn’t look at me. “Mr. Vale values awareness.”
Awareness.
I looked at the small black dome in the corner of the elevator ceiling.
Camera.
Of course.
Heat crawled up my neck. Not embarrassment. Something else. That same feeling from outside the building, when I read the text.
You’re early.
I suddenly imagined him somewhere, watching security feeds, seeing me stand frozen on the pavement like an i***t staring at glass.
Did he notice the hesitation?
Did that go into some mental file about me?
The elevator doors opened before my mind could spiral further.
The floor we stepped onto felt… quieter than downstairs. Like sound wasn’t encouraged up here.
Glass walls. Long hallways. Offices with clean desks, minimal things. People worked at sleek stations, their screens full of code, data, things moving too fast for my eyes to follow.
No one openly stared.
But I felt the shift when I passed. Subtle. Like a change in air pressure.
They knew who I was.
Not Mira from the tiny apartment. Not the girl who split fries with Lara at lunch breaks.
Mira the podcaster. The one who said his name out loud. The one who poked.
My chest tightened up more.
I told myself it was nerves.
But nerves don’t feel like being undressed without hands.
We stopped in front of a glass door. The man opened it, stepping aside.
“Wait here.”
Then he just left.
Just like that.
I stood alone in a room that was too open to hide in.
One wall was entirely glass, looking out over the city. The view made my old office building look like a toy. Clouds drifted past the windows like they were on the same level as us.
The other wall—
I froze.
A large screen. Floor to ceiling.
And on it…
My face.
Not a photo. A clip.
Me. From my podcast.
Mid-sentence. Mouth half open, eyes intense, finger raised like I was accusing someone invisible.
The audio was muted, but I knew exactly what I had been saying.
“People like Adrian Vale don’t build empires without cutting corners we’re not allowed to see.”
My throat went dry.
Below the paused video were tabs. Files.
My name.
Articles I’d written.
Social media posts.
Dates.
Timestamps.
A timeline.
I stepped closer without meaning to, like I was drawn by gravity.
There was even a screenshot of an old post I’d deleted. A joke. Barely important.
My chest started to feel tight in a way that wasn’t just nerves anymore.
He didn’t just read my work.
He traced me.
A strange mix of emotions hit at once.
Violation.
Impressiveness.
Fear.
And underneath all of it, something I hated admitting.
Excitement.
Because I had wanted to matter.
And this proved I did.
I wrapped my arms around myself, like that could hold my insides still.
“So,” I whispered to the empty room, “you looked back.”
My reflection in the glass wall stared at me. Small. Standing in a billionaire’s sky office like I belonged in neither place.
The door behind me clicked softly.
I didn’t turn.
I don’t know why.
Maybe I didn’t want to break the moment before it became real.
Footsteps. Slow. Measured. Not rushed.
Every step felt like a hand pressing between my shoulder blades.
My spine went straight. My skin prickled.
My mind ran through a hundred images of him at once. Photos from articles. Blurred shots from events. The idea of him I’d built from scraps.
None of them prepared me for the weight of a person actually being in the same room.
He stopped somewhere behind me. Not touching. Not too close.
But close enough that I could feel the space change.
His voice came, low and even.
“You’re observant.”
My heart jumped so hard it almost hurt.
“That’s why you’re here.”
Simple words.
But they landed heavy. Like they carried ten other meanings underneath.
I swallowed. My mouth felt dry.
I should say something smart. Confident. A line I’d practiced in imaginary confrontations.
Nothing came.
Just the sound of my own pulse in my ears.
I turned.
And for one sharp, breathless second, all I could think was
I should have turned back at the door.
- Writer
