Collision
I’ve always believed that the world is divided into two kinds: those who pull and those who push.
Some people are magnets, drawing everything and everyone into their orbit without even trying. Others, like me, are pushers—we keep our distance, we fight for space, and we pretend we’re immune to the kind of gravity that drags others helplessly closer.
But then I saw him.
And my theory collapsed like glass shattering under weight.
The day started the way most of mine do—rushed, chaotic, and barely stitched together with caffeine. I sprinted down the crowded New York sidewalk, the hem of my skirt fluttering against my knees, the strap of my tote bag digging into my shoulder.
“Leona, you’re late!” Elena’s voice crackled through my phone, sharp with amusement instead of anger. My best friend never missed an opportunity to remind me that punctuality and I had been estranged since birth.
“I’m three minutes late,” I huffed, dodging a man with a briefcase who looked like he’d stab me with it if I made him spill his coffee. “That barely qualifies as late.”
“Three minutes is the warm-up,” she teased. “By the time you get here, I’ll have aged a decade.”
I grinned despite the stitch forming in my side. Elena was waiting for me at Sterling Architecture, the firm we had both dreamed of working at since college. The only difference was that she had the job. I was here for an interview that could make or break me.
This was supposed to be my day. My chance to prove that all the sleepless nights hunched over drafting boards and all the rejection emails hadn’t been for nothing.
The building loomed ahead—glass and steel reaching arrogantly into the sky. I slowed my pace, smoothing my hair, forcing my breath to steady. If there was ever a time to look like I had my life together, it was now.
Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of polished marble and expensive cologne. Men and women in tailored suits clicked past me, their heels and shoes echoing like a countdown clock. I adjusted my blouse, lifted my chin, and stepped toward the reception desk.
That’s when it happened.
That’s when I looked up.
And saw him.
At first, he was just another impossibly well-dressed man in a charcoal suit, his stride purposeful, his posture commanding. But then his eyes lifted from the phone in his hand, and they collided with mine.
It wasn’t a glance.
It wasn’t a passing flicker of acknowledgment.
It was… gravity.
My breath caught, my feet stalled. His eyes—storm-gray, cold, and endless—locked on mine as though they had no intention of letting go. A strange pressure tightened in my chest, an invisible thread pulling me toward him.
He didn’t smile. Didn’t frown. His expression barely shifted, yet something in those eyes cracked my composure wide open.
Move, Leona. For God’s sake, move.
But I couldn’t.
I stood there, pinned in place, until a man behind me muttered a curse and shoved past. The spell snapped, and I tore my gaze away, heat flooding my cheeks.
Who the hell was that?
I forced myself to the reception desk, my palms damp against the smooth leather of my portfolio. The receptionist gave me a professional smile, her voice syrup-sweet.
“Good morning. Do you have an appointment?”
“Yes. Leona Hart. Interview with Mr. Kensington at ten.”
She clicked something on her computer, nodded, and gestured toward the elevators. “Twenty-seventh floor. Good luck.”
“Thanks.”
The elevator doors slid shut around me, my reflection staring back in the polished metal. I tried to shake it off—the intensity of that stranger’s gaze, the way my pulse still stumbled like it hadn’t found its rhythm again. This was ridiculous. Men looked at me all the time. Sometimes with interest, sometimes with dismissal. But none had ever made me feel like the air itself had thickened.
I closed my eyes, inhaled slowly. Focus, Leona. It’s just nerves. Nothing more.
The doors opened.
And there he was again.
Standing at the far end of the hallway, speaking to a man in a navy suit. The moment he turned his head and our eyes locked again, the world narrowed to just the two of us. My stomach flipped. My knees, traitorous things, threatened to buckle.
What was this? Why him? Why now?
Before I could make sense of it, the man in the navy suit called him by name.
“Mr. Voss, the board is waiting.”
Mr. Voss.
The name thudded through me with recognition. Damian Voss. The Damian Voss—CEO of Voss Enterprises. A man whispered about in every boardroom, feared in every negotiation, untouchable in every way that mattered.
And I had just stared at him like a moth hypnotized by flame.
He passed me as he left, his gaze lingering a second longer than it should have. My chest tightened, my breath stuck somewhere in my throat. He didn’t say a word. He didn’t have to.
Because I knew, without understanding how, that something had shifted.
Something that couldn’t be undone.
The interview blurred after that. Mr. Kensington asked about my portfolio, my experience, and my vision as a designer. I answered, but part of me was elsewhere—back in that hallway, replaying the weight of Damian Voss’s gaze.
When it ended, I rode the elevator down in silence, my pulse still unsteady. I told myself I’d never see him again, that our collision was nothing but a strange coincidence in a city full of strangers.
But deep down, I already knew better.
Because no matter how hard I tried to push it away, I could still feel it—the pull.
The unexplainable, unstoppable gravity of his eyes.
And it terrified me.
