When She Learned My Name

4. Proximity

“F-Fern…I still in my shift… I can book an Uber later to get there, haha…no need to bother you…”

The nervous, breathy laugh she forces out dies a pathetic death in the open space between them as Fernando halts right beside her desk. He doesn't answer her immediately. Instead, he drops his folded suit jacket onto the edge of her clean white desk with a soft thud, then leans his weight onto one hand, bracing himself over her chair.

The proximity is suffocating. The crisp, clean scent of his cologne—spiced cedar and ozone—completely swallows up the smell of fresh coffee and drafting paper.

"An Uber?" Fernando repeats, his voice dropping into a low, smooth purr that sends a violent shiver straight down her spine. His dark eyes rake slowly over her pale, panicked face, taking in every single micro-expression of sheer terror. "And risk you canceling the ride at the last second and disappearing into the night again? I don't think so, Gabby."

He reaches down, his long fingers effortlessly brushing past her hand to tap the edge of her screen, where her zoning drafts are still open.

"Besides, your shift ended five minutes ago," he continues, his gaze shifting up to meet her wide, trapped eyes with a terrifying intensity. "Gray told me you'd be dragging your feet. That's why I came to escort you myself."

Before she can scramble back or utter another desperate excuse, his hand moves from the desk to grip the arm of her rolling chair, pulling her a few inches closer so she has nowhere left to hide.

"So, save the breath you're wasting on excuses," Fernando murmurs softly, a dark, calculating edge sharpening his handsome features. "We're going to dinner. Together. And on the way... we are going to talk about why you've been running from me for the last two months."

“No…? I-I didn’t..?…Fern…everyone is still here…can you just…uh…”

The subtle, collective rustle of paper and murmurs from the nearby drafting tables serves as a gentle reminder that they are, in fact, surrounded by half a dozen of her new colleagues. Avina is currently squinting at a structural diagram ten feet away, utterly oblivious to the psychological cage Fernando has just constructed around her newest employee.

Fernando doesn't miss the way she tries to shimmy her chair backward, putting even a fraction of an inch of distance between them. A dark, amused glint flickers in his eyes at her desperate concern for propriety.

He slowly straightens up, letting go of the armrest, but the relaxed posture is pure theater. He steps just a hair closer instead, invading her personal space from a standing height that makes her feel entirely cornered even without him touching her.

"Let them look," Fernando murmurs, his voice dropping into a low, velvet hum meant exclusively for her ears. He reaches down with infuriating casualness, hooking his finger under the strap of her leather tote bag resting beside the desk and lifting it up. "They see a diligent family friend picking up a hard-working young woman for dinner. Nothing suspicious about that at all."

He drapes the bag over his shoulder, his dark gaze locking back onto hers with unyielding gravity.

"Unless, of course, you're giving them a reason to suspect you're hiding from me," he adds smoothly, his lips parting in a thin, razor-sharp smile. "Are you, Gabby?"

He extends his free hand toward her, palm up—an absolute command disguised as a gentlemanly gesture.

"Come on. Your brother is waiting, and I don't like being kept waiting either. Pack up your dignity, say goodbye to Avina, and let's go."

The sharp clatter of her ergonomic chair snapping back against the desk punctuates the abruptness of her movement. For a fleeting second, Gabriella’s gaze darts frantically across the open-plan studio.

Avina is still deep in discussion over structural load-bearing parameters near the central model, her back thankfully turned to the drama unfolding in the corner. A couple of junior draftsmen glance up, blinking in mild curiosity at the sudden velocity of the new hire, but Gabriella manages a tight, strained nod of forced acknowledgment—a desperate pantomime of a professional wrapping up an ordinary Tuesday.

Without sparing Fernando’s outstretched hand so much as a glance, she ducks sharply beneath the angle of his arm, her bag forgotten on the desk as she pivots toward the exit. Her heels strike the polished concrete floor with rapid, echoing staccato bursts, a rhythmic tapping of panic that telegraphs every ounce of her desire to flee.

Fernando’s hand hangs suspended in the air for a single beat. He watches her retreating back with a look that is neither surprised nor offended, but rather shadowed by a predatory, calculating amusement. The rejection of his gesture doesn’t deter him; if anything, it sharpens the dark, possessive glint in his eyes.

"Careful, Gabby," his deep, velvet voice follows her effortlessly across the echoing warehouse, cutting through the ambient hum of the 3D printers and muffled music.

"Toronto concrete is unforgiving when you're running blind."

He doesn't rush. He simply snatches her leather tote bag off the desk, slings the strap over his broad shoulder with unhurried grace, and trails a few paces behind her. His long, measured strides effortlessly match the frantic clip of her escape, closing the distance without ever breaking into a jog.

He is a shadow she cannot shake, moving with the terrifying certainty of a man who knows every exit, every trap, and every escape route she could possibly choose.

As she bursts through the heavy industrial glass doors and out onto the brisk Toronto sidewalk, the cool autumn air hits her flushed face like a splash of ice water. The sun is dipping low behind the monolithic glass towers of the financial district, casting long, bruised purples and burnt oranges across the pavement. She doesn't even make it three steps toward the curb before a sleek, obsidian-tinted Maybach pulls up with absolute, silent precision right beside her, idling like a dark beast waiting for its master.

The rear door opens smoothly from within, spilling a warm, dim cabin light onto the concrete.

Before Gabriella can veer around the vehicle or flag down a passing taxi, Fernando is there. He steps out from the sliding glass doors of the warehouse just behind her, his movements fluid and unnervingly quiet.

Without asking, without a single wasted motion, his hand cups firmly around her elbow—not violently, but with an immovable, iron-clad grip that steers her trajectory straight toward the open door of the car.

"Get in, little Valentina," he murmurs, his breath brushing the sensitive skin of her ear as he herds her effortlessly toward the leather interior. The low, rumbling hum of the Maybach’s engine vibrates through the pavement. "We wouldn't want you to keep your family—or me—waiting a second longer."