Eyes That Burn the Past
1805 Words
Eyes That Burn the Past
The echo of her heels trailed behind her like whispers of a past she desperately wanted to forget.
Dara didn’t stop walking until she reached the far end of the corridor, where the frosted glass door of the HR lounge offered a temporary escape. Her heart pounded in her chest like a warning bell. Her hands trembled slightly as she reached for the doorknob—but she gripped it harder, willing herself to be strong.
Not now. Not here.
Jude’s voice, that same voice that used to whisper promises in the quiet of the night, still lingered in her ears. Deeper. Older. But unmistakably his.
He looked just like she remembered—only more refined. A fitted grey suit hugged his tall frame, his hair styled to perfection, his presence still commanding. Only now, he wasn’t the struggling dreamer she once loved—he was polished. Presentable. Dangerous.
She had seen the confusion in his eyes, the disbelief that cracked his composure the moment he recognized her. But Dara hadn’t waited. She couldn’t. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction of watching her fall apart.
“Dara,” he had said, breathless.
And she had turned away.
Later that day, Dara sat at her desk in the executive floor, her fingers frozen on the keyboard. The luxury of the environment did nothing to soothe her nerves. Damien Ward’s office loomed several doors down, his presence ever commanding, even when unseen. But it wasn’t Damien who plagued her thoughts—it was Jude.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a firm voice.
“Dara,” came the stern tone of Miss Edith—Damien’s long-time executive secretary.
Dara rose instinctively.
“Yes, ma’am?”
“You were supposed to deliver these reports to Mr. Ward fifteen minutes ago.” She raised a brow sharply, her neatly styled silver bob unwavering. “Sloppiness is not tolerated here.”
“I—” Dara stammered. “I apologize. I was—”
Miss Edith gave her a once-over, unimpressed. “Excuses won’t earn you a place in this company. Ward Holdings is built on precision. If you want to remain here, act like you belong.”
Dara nodded stiffly. “Understood.”
“Good. Mr. Ward is expecting you. Now.”
As the older woman walked away, Dara felt heat rise to her cheeks. It wasn’t the scolding that bruised her pride it was the reminder that no matter how hard she tried, she was still climbing from the bottom.
She grabbed the reports and turned for Damien’s office, her hands clammy, her confidence shaken. One mistake, and everything she built—her plan, her strength, her image—could unravel.
Dara tried to steady her breath, her heels clicking with urgency as she made her way toward Damien Ward’s office. But inside, the storm was rising. The look in Jude’s eyes from earlier. The flash of confusion. Recognition. Regret.
Her grip on the reports tightened.
When she reached the executive suite, the receptionist barely glanced up before murmuring, “You may go in. Mr. Ward’s expecting you.”
Dara pushed the door open gently and stepped into Damien’s office.
Spacious. Cold. Power-soaked.
Floor-to-ceiling glass windows framed the skyline. Damien stood behind his desk, fingers tracing over his silver cufflinks. His tailored suit clung to him like armor, the kind worn by men who never lost.
He didn’t look up immediately. Instead, he motioned with two fingers. “Drop the reports here.”
Dara moved forward and placed the files on the desk, her voice steady. “As requested, sir.”
Damien finally glanced at her, his dark eyes assessing, unreadable. “You’ve been here three days, Miss Dara. Do you plan on staying longer than a week?”
She met his gaze calmly. “I intend to, sir.”
He tilted his head, a faint smile playing on his lips. “Good. I’ve seen people crumble under this floor’s pressure in less than five days. Even HR bets on it.”
The words stung, but Dara remained poised. “Pressure doesn’t scare me, Mr. Ward.”
“Then you’ll be just fine,” he said. “You’re dismissed.”
As Dara turned to leave, the glass door opened abruptly.
Jude.
Their eyes locked. Too fast. Too sharp. His presence sucked the air out of the room.
Jude was the first to recover, Sir. I was coming to drop off the Lisbon proposal.”
Dara nodded stiffly and sidestepped them both.
⸻
Back at her desk, Dara barely had time to sit before a low voice interrupted her thoughts.
“You’ve changed, Dara.”
She glanced up to see Jude standing beside her desk. His voice was quiet—too quiet for the setting.
“I’m working,” she replied without looking at him.
“I didn’t know you were here,” he said. “If I had—”
“What?” She looked at him now. “Would you have stayed away? Or warned HR to keep me out?”
His face twisted. “That’s not fair.”
“No, Jude. What wasn’t fair was you leaving without a word.”
Before he could answer, a sharp voice sliced through the tension.
“Is there a problem here?”
It was Miss Edith again. Her eyes flicked between the two like a hawk scanning a battlefield.
Jude straightened. “Just catching up.”
“Not during work hours,” she snapped. “Mr. Ward doesn’t tolerate lingering distractions.”
Jude gave Dara a final glance and turned away. Dara exhaled slowly, her knuckles white against her desk’s edge.
She wasn’t here to entertain the past. She was here to rewrite her future.
⸻
Later that day, the workload piled high. She was asked to sort logistics for an upcoming shareholders’ retreat, submit cross-departmental memos, and ensure print copies of reports were delivered to the right directors—all within tight deadlines.
By evening, Dara was drained.
“Ms. Dara,” one of the finance leads said briskly. “The charts you printed earlier are missing sections. They’re incomplete.”
She frowned. “That’s not possible. I double-checked—”
“Well, check again,” he said, dismissively. “Next time, do it right.”
Dara bit her tongue.
She wasn’t going to lose this job over someone else’s laziness or disrespect. She returned to the printer room, fixed the documents, and personally delivered them. But the sting remained.
This job was eating at her—but she needed it.
She needed Damien’s trust. She needed access. She needed power.
⸻
That evening, Dara’s one-room apartment felt colder than usual. She sat on the edge of the bed, shoulders slumped. Her daughter, Amira , was already awake from her evening nap, quietly drawing on a notepad nearby.
“Mummy, why are you sad again?” Amira asked, her tiny voice cutting through the silence.
Dara looked up, eyes stinging. She tried to smile. “I’m not sad, baby.”
Amira pouted. “Yes, you are. Your eyes always go small when you’re sad. Like they want to cry but are pretending.”
The lump in Dara’s throat tightened.
Amira climbed onto the bed and sat beside her. “Did someone at work shout at you again?”
Dara chuckled softly. “Yes. Kind of.”
“Do you want me to come to your office and shout at them back?” Amira’s eyes sparkled with childlike determination.
That finally made Dara smile. A real one. She pulled her daughter into a hug and kissed her forehead. “No, baby. You don’t need to fight anyone for me.”
“Then you fight them. Because you said we’re strong girls.”
Dara froze. The words dug deep.
You said we’re strong girls.
She had said that. Night after night when food was scarce. When power was out. When landlords came banging. When her arms ached from cleaning homes and her pride lay in tatters she always told Amira: “We’re strong girls. We don’t quit.”
And now, here she was, shaking because of a man who walked away from her… as if she hadn’t spent six years rising from the ashes he left behind.
“No,” Dara whispered, brushing Amira’s hair back. “You’re right. We’re strong girls.”
She stood, her posture straighter. Tomorrow, she’d go back in and do what she came to do—work hard, stay sharp, and bury Jude with success.
Revenge wasn’t about screaming. It was about showing up every day until the person who broke you has no choice but to watch you rise.
⸻
The next morning at Ward Holdings, the energy was tense.
Dara walked in with her chin held high. Her fitted blazer was freshly pressed, her heels clicking against the marble floor like war drums. She took her seat with a renewed clarity.
But it didn’t take long before her inbox pinged.
Subject: Meeting - Executive Strategy Briefing
From: Damien Ward
Time: 10:00 AM
Location: Boardroom B1
Dara blinked.
This wasn’t her department’s standard schedule.
Something was off.
⸻
10:00 AM. She walked into the boardroom. It was empty, save for Damien seated, suit sharp, fingers drumming on the table with casual elegance.
“Miss Dara,” he said, not looking up.
“Sir,” she responded, keeping her tone formal.
“You came highly recommended,” he continued, finally lifting his eyes. “But I noticed a slight distraction in your performance yesterday.”
Her stomach dipped. “I apologize. It won’t happen again.”
He leaned back. “See that it doesn’t. I don’t like second-guessing my judgment.”
“Yes, sir.”
A beat of silence stretched between them.
Then he added, “By the way, you bumped into someone in the elevator yesterday. Tall, messy hair, attitude problem?”
Dara’s heart skipped.
“Yes,” she answered carefully.
Damien smirked faintly. “His name’s Jude. He’s been under my management for years. Brilliant, but… impulsive.”
Dara forced a polite smile. “I see.”
“You two seemed… familiar,” Damien said casually, his eyes suddenly more calculating.
Dara didn’t flinch. “Not at all, sir. I simply dislike unnecessary small talk.”
Damien studied her for a moment like he could read more than her words.
“Well then,” he said, standing. “Keep your head in the game, Miss Dara. You’ve got potential.”
She nodded. “I won’t disappoint you.”
As she exited the room, her nerves were rattled. Damien had no idea how close he was to the truth. Jude was more than just a blast from the past.
He was the trigger.
But Dara? She was the bullet.
And this time, she was going to hit where it hurt.
⸻
- Writer
