Chapter 2
1172 Words
Chapter 2
I don’t sit. Neither does he.
“I wasn’t expecting you,” he says after a beat.
“I didn’t know you were the client,” I reply, my voice tighter than I intended.
He studies me. Not just my face—but all of me. Like he’s trying to reconcile the ghost of the girl who left with the woman standing in front of him now.
“You’re an interior designer.”
“I run a firm.”
“Impressive,” he says flatly..
We’re dancing around landmines, pretending there aren’t five years of heartbreak between us. Pretending he didn’t once trace every inch of my skin like it held the answers to his future.
He gestures toward the project folder on his desk. “You’re here about the West 49th property.”
“Yes.”
“Then let’s keep this professional.” His tone cuts through me. It’s not angry. It’s worse. It’s controlled.
I nod, forcing composure. “Of course.”
He walks around the desk and hands me the floor plans. His fingers brush mine briefly—just a second—but it’s enough to send a jolt straight through my spine. He notices it too. His jaw tightens.
“The penthouse has a good foundation,” I say, flipping through the notes. “But the interior lacks warmth. It feels cold.”
His gaze is unreadable. “Maybe that’s the point.”
I look up, startled by the bitterness in his voice. But it’s gone just as fast.
We talk business for twenty minutes. I suggest layouts, he critiques finishes. Every word feels like a battle of restraint. My pulse thrums with everything unsaid.
Finally, he closes the folder and says, “We’ll proceed with your firm. But I’ll be involved in all major decisions.”
A power play. I expected it. “Understood.”
He walks me to the door. Just as I reach for the handle, his voice stops me.
“Why did you leave, Elina?”
I freeze.
My back is to him. I can feel his eyes boring into me.
“I thought we were past that,” I manage.
“We never even started that conversation.”
I turn slowly. His expression is unreadable, but his eyes—those storm-blue eyes—are on fire with barely restrained emotion.
“You disappeared,” he says. “No explanation. No goodbye. You just vanished. And now, five years later, you show up in my office like nothing happened.”
My throat tightens. “You’re right. You deserve answers.”
“I don’t want to do this, Elina,” he says, his voice low, like it’s taking everything in him to keep calm.
I can’t breathe.
The words he’s saying don’t even seem to register fully in my brain because all I can think about is the baby. The secret that’s haunted me for years.
“You don’t get to walk in here and pretend like everything is fine,” Noah continues, his voice growing colder, sharper with each word. “Not after everything you’ve done. Not after how you left me.”
“I didn’t want to hurt you,” I reply, the words escaping before I can stop them
“Then give me a reason,” he demands, stepping closer. “One real reason.”
I open my mouth—but the lie catches in my throat.
Because I was pregnant.
Because I lost our baby.
Because I didn’t know how to stay without destroying you.
But all I say is, “It’s complicated.”
He exhales harshly and turns away. “Of course it is.”
I reach for the door again, and this time he doesn’t stop me.
As I walk into the hall, my phone buzzes. A new message.
Unknown number.
I swipe to open it—and my blood runs cold.
'Does Noah know about the baby you lost?'
The phone slips from my fingers.
My hands tremble as I stare at the message on my phone.
I blink rapidly, as if clearing my eyes will make the words disappear. But they don’t. They remain etched on the screen, black against the white background, taunting me with a truth I’ve spent years trying to bury.
I bend to pick it up, my knees shaking as I do, and the moment my hand wraps around the cold metal of the phone, a new message pops up, this one from a different number, but the same chilling question:
'Does Noah know?'
I feel a sickening knot twist in my stomach, and the room seems to tilt. I stand up too quickly, feeling lightheaded, and grip the edge of the reception desk to steady myself.
I swipe to read the message again, my thumb moving on autopilot as panic surges through me like an electric current.
How do they know?
My pulse races as I scan my surroundings—empty hallways, sterile walls, the faint hum of air conditioning—nothing but silence.
I should be running, running back to my office, locking myself in, but something keeps me rooted here, stuck in place.
This can’t be happening again.
I send a quick message back, typing in a hurried panic:
'Who is this?'
But no there's no reply.
I’m still staring at the message when I hear the click of heels against the polished floor. I turn around, but it’s too late to hide.
The executive liaison's piercing gaze meets mine, curious.
“Ms. Hemsworth, are you all right?” Her voice is smooth, and calculated. She’s studying me, her eyes narrowing slightly as she takes in the tension I’m sure is written all over my face.
“I’m fine,” I manage, forcing the words out with an effort. I can’t let her see that I’m unraveling, can’t let her see the c***k in my armor that Noah has managed to exploit so effortlessly.
“I’m going to need you to follow me, Ms. Hemsworth,” she says after a beat, her tone brisk, no room for argument. "There are a few executives that'll like to meet you concerning the designs. Mr. Woods has asked me to bring you."
I nod, swallowing the lump in my throat.
I walk behind her, my footsteps hollow in the quiet, and the buzz of my phone still pulses in my pocket like a reminder of the storm brewing just beneath the surface.
We pass through the long corridor again, the same stark, minimalist design that made me feel small and insignificant when I first walked through it, but now it feels suffocating like I’m being herded toward something inevitable.
She opens a door at the end of the hall and steps aside, allowing me to enter first.
In the room are four people—including Noah—waiting for me.
I take a deep breath as I steel myself. But just before I fully get into the room, my phone buzzes with a new message.
The message is signed:
Olivia Harper.
- Writer
