UNWRITTEN BUT FELT

Chapter Two: The Man in the Glass Office

Sharon sat at the long white table, her fingers tapping the rim of her notebook, the soft cadence betraying her anxiety. The conference room stretched out around her like an overly sanitized diorama: sterile white walls, designer black chairs, a potted ficus that hadn't wilted even slightly in the weeks she'd been there. The sole sounds were the hum of the air conditioner and the gentle hum of Gia's voice beside her, running through their campaign briefs in that calm, focused way she had.

"Stick to the figures when they ask," Gia said, eyes not leaving her screen. "ROI, engagement rate, month-on-month growth. That's what he likes."

Sharon nodded absent-mindedly. Her eyes weren't on the presentation. They were on the man behind the glass.

She could see his private office through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the corridor, at the other end of the hallway, like a city in the distance behind an invisible wall. It was more of a display case than an office—enclosed in clear glass, a jarring contrast to what secrets appeared to reside within him. He hadn't glanced in her direction since they'd shaken hands that morning.

Derek Royce.

The name sounded strange in her mouth, even in silence. Derek Royce. Like saying it might summon something old and subterranean. To the world, he was the elusive genius mind behind DOVE—the wildly successful audio-based app that had reshaped the digital world. CEO. Billionaire. Empire builder. To her… he had once been a boy with chalk dust on his fingers and a sketchbook full of birds. A boy who had spent entire lunch hours sketching pigeons and sparrows while she'd sat across from him with half-eaten slices of apple and stories she thought only he was willing to listen to.

Now he was sitting in a leather armchair, composed and serene, talking to a woman with legs crossed like scissors and a red smile that cut just as cleanly.

Talia Crane.

Sharon had read about her—inconceivable not to. Style icon, investor, digital muse, former fiancée. Some people said she was the whisper behind Derek's initial success, the silhouette in the background of each of his launches. Others said she never left. That she continued to carry his heart in the little velvet bag she took from gala to gala.

Talia leaned in now, too close for decent space, brushing an invisible crumb from his collar with lingering fingers. Her nails gleamed like lacquered threat.

He didn't flinch. But he didn't lean in either. His face was neutral. Closed. A door without a keyhole.

Sharon watched their lips move.

She couldn’t hear them, of course. But she had always been good at filling in blanks. She saw the subtle tension in Talia’s jaw, the arch of her brow. The faint shift in Derek’s posture.

Talia: “She’s cute. But too soft.”

Derek: “She knows the platform better than anyone.”

Talia: “You’re letting feelings pick talent?”

Derek: [Shrug.] “I don’t even know her.”

That last one landed like a slap she hadn’t expected.

Even if he didn’t say it. Even if he never would.

Even if it was all her imagination.

“Don’t let her rattle you,” Gia said quietly, nudging her with her elbow. Her tone was soft but purposeful, the way a sister might steady your spine before a storm.

“I’m fine,” Sharon replied.

But she wasn’t.

Because even through the glass, despite the years and the fame and the thousands of unsaid things between them, Derek Royce was pulling on something inside of her. Not with charm. Not with looks. Something else—something older. Like a song from a summer you were a child, heard years later on a street corner, and suddenly you're ten years old, standing there with a Popsicle, trying not to cry for reasons you can't remember.

The door to the office is open.

Talia stepped out first, smile tense and unnatural as an over-tightened bow. She did not look at Sharon. Did not need to.

Derek followed a beat later. Crisp dark suit. Open neck. His gaze swept the room once, a quick taking in of surroundings, and then he spotted her. The connection was immediate.

Their eyes met.

Only for an instant.

Then he turned and walked to the head of the table, pulling out a chair like it was any other day, any other meeting, any other girl.

“Let’s hear what you’ve brought,” he said, voice low and smooth.

The room stilled around him. Everyone sat straighter, laptops opening, voices lowering. Even Gia looked more alert.

Sharon stood.

She opened her folder, edges of paper cool on her fingertips, but her heart wasn't in the slides anymore. It was still back in that glass office. Still echoing with the question she couldn't ask: How do you not remember me?

She cleared her throat, spoke loudly.

"Our campaign hangs on three pillars," she began. "Authenticity, urgency, and reach. We're targeting micro-creators with high intimacy value. We call it—"

She halted.

Her eyes flicked to Derek.

He wasn't watching her. He was reading a brief in front of him, the crease between his eyebrows deeper than she remembered. Or maybe it had always been there, hidden underneath all the brilliance.

She continued, turning the next page.

—We call it 'The Voice Next Door.' These are producers who have small audiences but intense emotional relationships with their listeners. Bedtime podcasts, cooking diaries, midnight diarying. These voices are unpolished, intimate, and authentic—and we believe that's the future."

There was a silence. Derek looked up at her. Not at her slides.

At her.

"How do you measure 'real'?" he said.

His tone wasn't condescending. Just precise. Direct.

Sharon swallowed. "By engagement duration. By retention curves. But also." She hesitated. Then added, "Sometimes you feel it before you see it."

He looked at her for a long time.

Talia, still by the glass door, laughed softly. "Feelings," she breathed. "Always so unquantifiable."

Sharon smiled, but with steel behind it. "Until they go viral."

A soft murmur went through the room. A few laughs. One executive nodded.

Derek tapped his pen twice on the table, then leaned back. "What's your biggest risk in this campaign?"

Sharon's mind shuffled through the deck. "Brand dilution. If we expand too fast, we lose intimacy. Listeners require voices that sound near to them, not voices that sound like advertising."

He nodded once. "Good answer."

Then, nothing.

He shut the folder.

The rest of the team shifted uncomfortably.

Sharon just stood there, heart pounding, waiting for something—anything.

But he moved on.

Who's integrating backend with our creators?" he asked Gia, as if nothing was amiss. As if the storm had never rolled through.

Sharon took a seat slowly. Her fists tightened in her lap. She did not look at Gia, or at the slides, or at the polite faces around the table.

She only looked down and saw her handwriting in the margins of her notes:

He would sketch kestrels when he was angry. I never asked why. I just watched.

The meeting ended an hour later.

People began to pour out, already on calls or rushing to meetings. Gia leaned in.

"You were good," she whispered. "He noticed."

"He forgot," Sharon whispered back.

Gia tilted her head. "You sure?"

Sharon didn't answer.

She just stood, gathered her things, and left the conference room. But instead of heading in the direction of the elevator, her feet carried her in the direction of the glass office. The door was still ajar.

She stopped right in front of it.

Inside, Derek stood at his desk, alone now. The skyline in the background silhouette profiled him like an old photograph.

She didn't knock.

Just watched.

He didn't turn. But after a beat, his voice reached her.

"You should come in."

She blinked. "I didn't—"

"You hesitated," he said. "That's the same as knocking."

Heart rising into her throat, she came in. The glass door sighed shut behind her.

He didn't look at her. Just said, "Your campaign's smart. Clean. Emotional."

"Thanks," she said, hovering in the silence like a ghost.

A beat.

Then he added, "You remind me of someone."

Her breath caught.

"Someone from when?"

He turned at last. His eyes were on hers. Unreadable. And yet something in them now—something cracking.

"A long time ago," he said.

She smiled, sad and brave, together. "Do you remember what you used to draw?"

He blinked. A pause.

"Kestrels," he said.

Silence.

"I never asked why," she said. "But I always watched."

He looked at her as if he saw her for the first time.

"No one else remembered that," he said softly.

"I did," Sharon said. "I always did."

And for the first time that morning, the man in the glass office looked like someone who might remember, too.