Chapter 4
1093 Words
The elevator hums louder than usual…
Or maybe the building is just too quiet this early.
No phones yet, and no printers warming up… just the low mechanical sound and my reflection in brushed steel trying to look like this is a normal Tuesday.
The doors opened to the reception floor, and the lights were already on.
I stop before stepping out. Eve never turns them on before me… she hates mornings on principle and refuses to arrive earlier than necessary.
But the space is lit, clean and even, the way I leave it after closing.
I step forward slowly…
The hallway is too quiet for this hour… Usually the cleaning cart is parked near the elevators, lemon disinfectant lingering in the carpet. Today the air smells like fresh coffee instead.
I cross the reception slowly and see that the front desk computer is on.
The login screen waits with the cursor blinking, patiently, like someone just stood there.
A paper cup sits beside it. Obviously, not ours… we don’t allow drinks near equipment.
The lid is folded back the way I always do so steam doesn’t collect and drip.
I pause and look towards the digital wall clock, which reads 7:12.
No one on my team arrives before eight…
My keys stay in my hand as I move toward my office, heels quieter against the carpet than they should be.
My office door is open a fraction more than I left it last night. The edge of light spills across the floor, sharp and deliberate.
I reach out and push it wider.
Inside, the blinds are adjusted halfway, letting in morning light without glare on the glass desk.
My chair is pushed in, but the second chair across from it is not.
Someone was there.
For a second, my brain doesn’t attach a name.
It recognizes a shape first… The way he occupies space without moving to claim it, I already knew who it was before I saw his face.
He gets up as I enter…not in a rushed way, though.
My grip tightens on the keys.
He doesn’t step closer neither do I.
Silence stretches long enough to become intentional.
“You took longer than expected,” he says.
His voice lands exactly where memory kept it.
I set my bag on the desk but don’t sit. “You arranged transportation without permission.”
“You would have refused otherwise.”
“This isn’t how contracts work.”
A faint shift of expression, more like a smirk, “You still begin with work before questions.”
I ignore that. “You locked my company into a month agreement.”
“You opened the file.”
“You manipulated the terms.”
“You read them.”
My jaw sets. “You contacted my home.”
“I contacted you.”
“That’s not the same.”
For the first time he studies me fully, not quickly, not politely. Like confirming something against memory instead of appearance.
“You look exactly how I thought you would.”
“I didn’t invite your observation. I don't need it.”
“No,” he says quietly. “You never did.”
I move behind the desk to put space between us, fingers resting against the glass edge. “State your objective so I can decide whether legal action is necessary.”
“You’ll come to Italy.”
“That isn’t an objective. That’s an assumption.”
“It’s scheduled.”
I hold his gaze. “Cancel it.”
“No.” The word lands simple and final.
“This stops now,” I say. “You don’t get to orchestrate my time because you have resources.”
A pause.
Then, calm and steady: “I need to speak with you somewhere you won’t leave after five minutes.”
“I’m not leaving now.”
“Yes,” he says softly. “You are.”
I huffed, “Whatever conversation you think this is,” I say carefully, “you can have it here.”
He watches me a moment longer, then reaches into his jacket pocket and places a thin envelope on the desk between us.
I don’t touch it.
“What is it?”
“Information you deserve.”
“I didn’t ask for anything.”
He slides the envelope slightly closer but doesn’t push it all the way.
I look down despite myself and my name is written across the front in handwriting I remember without permission.
The room suddenly feels smaller.
“You don’t get to appear after years and decide what I deserve,” I say evenly.
I turn and reach for the office door and pull it open, “You’ve said enough.”
He doesn’t move.
“I mean it,” I add. “You don’t get to walk into my workplace and-”
“Arielle.”
I stop.
Not because of volume. He didn’t raise his voice.
Because he said my name like it belonged to a memory instead of a room.
I grip the door harder. “Leave.”
“If I leave now,” he says quietly, “you won’t answer again.”
“That would be the point.”
A small pause, then he reaches into his jacket.
My posture stiffens instantly. “Don’t.”
He stops, watching me register the movement
“I didn’t come here to force you,” he says, “I came because this can’t be said through a screen.”
“You should have thought of that five years ago.”
His expression changes slightly at that, the first real c***k in his composure.
“I did,” he says.
The silence between us tightens.
Then: “Five years, two months.”
I look up sharply. He holds my gaze, no hesitation now.
“You left Paris before sunrise,” he continues. “You took the train instead of the flight you booked.”
The air catches in my throat. I didn’t tell anyone that.
“I waited three hours before realizing you weren’t coming back.”
The office is suddenly too bright.
“You ordered orange blossoms for breakfast and pushed them aside,” he says, voice lower now. “You said the scent made everything feel permanent.”
I don’t realize I’ve stopped breathing until my chest tightens.
He steps back, giving space instead of taking it.
“I’m not here about the past,” he says but I don’t believe him.
He watches me for one last second before adding, “I’m here about our son.”
- Writer
