Chapter Four: Whispers in Marble Halls
1368 Words
(Elara’s POV)
By the next morning, the office didn’t just buzz — it vibrated.
Like a beehive disturbed too early, everyone moved fast, spoke in half-sentences, and looked over their shoulders more than they looked at their work.
Phones rang longer before being answered. Laughter, the kind that usually filled the space between coffee breaks, was replaced by whispers that died the moment someone walked by.
Something was wrong.
I could feel it before I heard it. The kind of tension that hums under polished marble floors and glass walls — like the building itself was holding its breath.
“Did you hear?” a junior designer hissed near the printer. “He’s here again. Mr. Hale.”
The name sliced through the air like cold metal.
Even without looking, I could feel everyone straighten. That name carried weight — like thunder rumbling before a storm.
Klaus Hale.
I’d heard it whispered before. The kind of man who didn’t just own buildings; he owned the air around them. People described him in contradictions — brilliant but ruthless, magnetic but dangerous.
The man behind Haven Group’s empire. The ghost that haunted its hallways.
I swallowed, pretending to stay focused on my sketches. But my ears wouldn’t stop listening.
“They say he’s auditing departments himself,” another voice murmured. “Apparently, someone’s been leaking confidential blueprints to a rival firm. The Board’s going insane.”
Leaking blueprints.
The words made my stomach knot. Haven Group’s projects weren’t just architecture — they were statements. Power printed in steel and glass. A leak like that could ruin people.
I stared at my desk, trying to calm my racing mind.
It couldn’t be him. It shouldn’t be him.
But every instinct inside me whispered that it was.
Dean.
The man who showed up out of nowhere. Who spoke like he’d built empires and lost them. Who disappeared for days without explanation — and somehow returned every time the air got heavier.
That night, I didn’t even pretend I was staying for work.
I told myself I wanted silence — to focus, to finish a design. But deep down, I knew the truth. I was waiting for him.
The city outside glowed through the rain-smeared glass, gold lights streaking the darkness. The storm had thinned to a steady drizzle, tapping gently against the windows.
I traced my pencil across the page — a concept for a waterfront tower. The lines curved, organic and soft. Not rigid. Not perfect. Just… alive.
I didn’t hear him enter.
But I felt him.
A ripple in the air. A shift in the quiet. Then, a faint knock — three soft taps against the glass wall of the design room.
When I looked up, my breath caught.
He stood there — calm, shadowed, wearing the same dark uniform that never quite fit the way it should. His sleeves were rolled to his forearms again, a faint smudge of dust along his wrist. But it wasn’t his uniform that caught me. It was his eyes — sharp, knowing, carrying that same storm I’d been trying to draw.
“You’re here,” I said quietly, my voice softer than I intended.
He stepped inside, closing the door behind him. “I told you. The night keeps me.”
Something about the way he said it made my pulse skip.
“You vanished for days,” I murmured.
His lips curved faintly. “Work took me somewhere else.”
I folded my arms, pretending not to care. “That vague answer doesn’t make it better.”
He smiled, the kind that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “Some things don’t have answers you’re ready to hear.”
“Then maybe try me,” I challenged.
But he didn’t. Instead, he moved closer — slow, deliberate — until he was standing right beside my desk. His presence changed the air, thickened it. The scent of rain clung to his shirt, mixed with something faintly expensive, like cedar and smoke.
He leaned over slightly, studying my sketch. “You draw emotion,” he said softly. “Most architects chase symmetry. You chase feeling.”
The words hit deeper than I expected. No one had ever noticed that. No one had ever seen it.
I blinked, suddenly aware of how close he was. Of the way his voice brushed against me — low, measured, like a whisper that wasn’t meant for the world to hear.
“You make buildings breathe,” he continued. “That’s rare.”
I didn’t trust my voice enough to reply.
He reached out then, tracing a finger along the edge of the paper. His touch didn’t reach me, not exactly — but it felt like it did. Just a breath of distance, yet it sent a current through me that made it hard to stay still.
“Dean,” I managed to whisper, my chest tightening, “what are you doing here?”
His eyes lifted to mine, calm but shadowed. “Trying not to make a mistake.”
Before I could ask what that meant, footsteps echoed down the hall. Heavy. Confident. Coming closer.
Dean straightened instantly, his expression snapping into something cold, unreadable.
“Someone’s coming,” he murmured.
A second later, the glass door slid open.
Mr. Sterling — the senior architect — stepped in. His sharp gaze swept across the room before landing on Dean.
“Janitor?” Sterling’s tone was sharp. “What are you doing in here?”
Dean didn’t flinch. “Cleaning, sir.”
Sterling’s brow furrowed. “At midnight?”
“Yes.” His answer was calm, unshaken.
The silence that followed stretched long enough to make my pulse hammer. Sterling studied him — suspicious, assessing — before turning to me.
“Elara, go home,” he said curtly. “You’re not paid to work overtime.”
I nodded quickly. “Yes, sir.”
Sterling gave Dean one last look — a warning in his eyes — then left.
The door clicked shut behind him.
Dean turned back to me, his tone suddenly low, urgent. “Don’t talk to anyone about me.”
I blinked, startled. “Why would I—?”
“Promise me,” he interrupted, his gaze sharp now. Not cold. Protective.
“Dean…”
“Promise.”
The word carried weight — heavier than any request he’d made before.
I swallowed, nodding slowly. “I promise.”
Something in his expression eased. He exhaled, almost in relief, like he’d been holding his breath for too long.
“Good,” he murmured, his voice soft again.
Then, as if the moment had never happened, he picked up his mop, his bucket, and turned toward the door.
But as he walked away, I caught it — a glimpse beneath his sleeve. Just for a second.
A silver wristwatch. Sleek. Polished. The kind that didn’t belong to anyone cleaning floors.
And not just any watch. I recognized the brand. It was Swiss-made — the kind sold only by appointment. My father used to say, “No one wears a watch like that unless they’ve built empires or destroyed them.”
The door closed softly behind him.
I stood there for a long time, staring at the empty hallway, the reflection of the city trembling across the glass.
Nothing about him added up.
Not the way he spoke.
Not the way people seemed to move differently when he was near.
Not the way he looked at me — like he saw something I hadn’t yet dared to see in myself.
I pressed my fingers to the glass, feeling the faint chill of the night on the other side.
Whoever he was, I was certain of one thing now — the man I’d been waiting for wasn’t a janitor.
He was something else entirely.
Something powerful.
Something hidden.
Something that, deep down, I wasn’t sure I should be falling for.
But it was already too late.
Because even after he was gone, his voice lingered in my head — low and calm and dangerously intimate.
“Trying not to make a mistake.”
And I realized with a quiet ache…
Maybe I was the mistake he was trying not to make.
- Writer
