CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
842 Words
Chapter Thirty-seven
Monday mornings were supposed to be brutal, but Briella walked into Nivida with a smile still resting on her lips from the weekend. She felt lighter, not in the way of someone who had solved all their problems, but in the way of someone who had remembered how to breathe.
Her secretary, Clara, noticed instantly.
“You seem… happier today,” Clara remarked, handing her a neat stack of files.
“Do I?” Briella arched a brow.
“Yes. It’s unnerving. Should I be worried?”
Briella laughed, shaking her head. “Not unless you’ve secretly sabotaged our contracts.”
Clara smirked, pleased to have cracked the stiffness of their usual mornings. “Then I’m safe.”
Inside his own office across town, Marcellus didn’t share the luxury of lightness. His phone was pressed to his ear, his expression clipped.
“Tell me exactly how the shipment got rerouted,” he said. His voice was steady, low, but there was a grit in it that meant someone’s career was hanging by a thread.
On the other end, his operations head stumbled through explanations—shipping manifests altered, delivery schedules mysteriously overwritten, a warehouse locked out of its own system.
“Again?” Marcellus muttered, eyes narrowing. “And don’t tell me it’s coincidence. This has Tristan written all over it.”
He leaned back, fingers drumming against the desk. He didn’t raise his voice—he never did—but the weight of his silence was worse than anger.
“Listen carefully. We don’t panic. We don’t give them the satisfaction. Redirect through Valencia. Call the secondary carriers. I want backup documentation in my inbox before noon.”
When he hung up, his secretary Grace stepped forward with a file. Her tone was smooth, professional, almost too careful.
“Shall I reschedule your eleven o’clock so you can focus on this matter, sir?”
Marcellus looked up, meeting her gaze briefly. Grace’s expression was unreadable—polished, obedient—but something about her eyes flickered, just for half a second, when she said this matter. He tucked the observation away without comment.
“No,” he said evenly. “Keep the eleven. And bring me the Valencia files now.”
Grace nodded and left the office, her heels clicking softly. If he hadn’t been so trained to notice, Marcellus might have missed the faintest trace of a smirk that ghosted across her lips as she turned away.
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That evening, Briella invited him to her place. She had cooked—pasta, slightly over-salted but edible—and the smallness of the gesture touched him more than he’d admit.
“So,” she said as they sat with glasses of wine, “are you going to tell me what’s going on? You’ve had that look all day.”
“What look?” he countered.
“The one where you’re thinking so hard your jaw could cut glass.”
He almost smiled. Almost. “It’s nothing you need to worry about.”
“That’s not an answer,” she pointed out, fork twirling lazily.
He studied her—her eyes sharp, her determination clear. He wanted to tell her, but something in him resisted. She deserved peace, at least for a little while.
“It’s just the usual nonsense,” he said at last. “Supply chains, delays. Nothing unusual.”
Briella leaned back, unconvinced but unwilling to press. “Fine. But you’ll tell me if it’s more than that?”
“Of course,” he said softly.
The evening drifted easier after that. They washed dishes side by side, bumping elbows in the small kitchen, and when she splashed water on his sleeve, he retaliated with a flick of the towel. Her laughter rang clear, a sound that wrapped itself around the edges of his restraint.
Later, as she drove him home—her second official driving lesson under his supervision—he corrected her steering with quiet patience.
“Too sharp,” he murmured. “Ease into it. You don’t fight the car; you guide it.”
“And if the car refuses to listen?” she teased.
“Then you remind it who’s in control.” His gaze lingered on her a moment too long, the double meaning hovering unsaid.
They pulled into his street just as the black sedan rolled slowly past, headlights briefly catching the silver of his car. Briella didn’t notice, her attention fixed on not scraping the curb. But Marcellus did. His eyes narrowed, following the car until it vanished around the corner.
He said nothing. Not yet.
Inside, Briella exhaled triumphantly. “I didn’t stall once this time.”
“You’re improving,” he admitted, a small smile breaking through.
She grinned at him, glowing with quiet pride. He let her have the moment, but when she turned away, his gaze lingered on the window, where shadows stretched too long for comfort.
The black car had been there again. And patience, he knew, was rarely innocent.
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✨ End of Chapter Thirty-Seven ✨
- Writer
