CHAPTER THREE(LATE HOURS)
1027 Words
Natalie
The office was silent when I glanced up, darkness pressing against the floor-to-ceiling windows. Lights from downtown Toronto blinked like distant stars, reminding me that the world was still moving while I was trapped under a mountain of paper.
The Peterson file was a nightmare.
Contracts, amendments, side notes in handwriting I could barely read. Numbers, deadlines, projections that made my head spin. I pulled my hair into a messy bun, highlighter in one hand, pen in the other, scribbling notes and trying to match documents.
Every time my eyelids drooped, I saw Sophie’s face, bright with hope. I saw the eviction notice hidden under the sugar jar. I saw the way Adrian’s gray eyes had pinned me in place when he said:
“Don’t disappoint me.”
The clock on my borrowed desk glowed 9:43 PM.
Everyone else was gone. Vanessa had given me a satisfied smirk when she left, saying, “Don’t stay too late, new girl,” in a syrupy voice that made my teeth clench.
I stayed.
Because I couldn’t afford to fail.
---
The hum of the copier was the only sound left in the building, punctuated by the scratching of my pen. I found an error in a contract amendment, a date typed incorrectly that could have cost the company thousands if it slipped through. I highlighted it, adding it to the correction list.
A small thrill of satisfaction ran through me. Maybe I wasn’t completely out of my depth.
I stood, stretching, rolling my shoulders to ease the stiffness from hours of hunching. My stomach rumbled, reminding me the coffee I’d downed hours ago wasn’t dinner.
I was so focused on the stack in my hands that I didn’t hear the elevator until the soft ding echoed through the empty floor.
The doors opened, and footsteps approached, slow and deliberate.
I froze, turning toward the sound, my pulse spiking when I saw him.
Adrian Cole.
His tie was loosened, the top button of his shirt undone, sleeves rolled to his elbows, revealing strong forearms. His hair was slightly tousled, like he’d run his hands through it out of frustration. He paused when he saw me, his gray eyes unreadable.
For a moment, neither of us spoke.
“You’re still here,” he said finally, voice low, echoing in the quiet.
I nodded, clutching the papers to my chest. “I’m almost done with the Peterson file.”
He glanced at the clock on the wall. “It’s almost ten.”
“I know.”
Silence stretched between us. His eyes swept over the organized piles on my desk, the notes I’d made, the highlighted corrections.
“You found the date error in the amendment,” he said, nodding toward the note.
“Yes,” I replied, hesitating before adding, “It could have caused problems in the negotiations.”
His eyes lifted to mine, and something flickered there—a brief softening before it disappeared. “Good.”
The word made warmth bloom in my chest, but I pushed it down quickly.
He moved closer, picking up a sheet from the stack, scanning it quickly. I caught the faint scent of his cologne—clean, crisp, with a hint of something darker.
“I didn’t expect you to stay,” he said without looking at me.
“I couldn’t leave it unfinished.”
“Most would have.”
“I’m not most people.”
His eyes lifted sharply, locking onto mine. The tension stretched, thick and charged, something unspoken crackling in the space between us.
“You’re not,” he said quietly.
I swallowed, dropping my gaze to the papers. “I’ll finish soon. You don’t have to wait.”
“I’m not waiting,” he replied, but he didn’t leave.
Instead, he moved to the window, looking out over the city lights, hands sliding into his pockets. The silence felt different now, not empty, but heavy with everything unsaid.
---
I turned back to the file, trying to ignore the way my skin prickled under the weight of his presence. My pen scratched across the paper, and the hum of the copier started again as I made the last set of copies.
“You’re organized,” he said after a moment.
I blinked, looking up. “Thank you.”
“Efficient.”
“I try.”
His gaze flicked to me, a small smirk pulling at the corner of his lips. “And you argue.”
I flushed. “Only when necessary.”
A soft sound escaped him—almost a laugh, but not quite. It was gone as quickly as it came, his face returning to its usual stoic mask.
“You’re different, Miss Brooks.”
I opened my mouth, then closed it, unsure how to respond.
He stepped closer, and I could see the faint shadows under his eyes, the tightness around his mouth. For a moment, he looked… tired. Human.
“Don’t let them break you,” he said, voice softer now.
My heart thudded painfully. “Who?”
His eyes flickered, a storm in gray. “Everyone.”
I wanted to ask what he meant, but he stepped back, the distance between us returning like a snapped rubber band.
“Finish the file and go home,” he said, his tone clipped again.
“Yes, sir.”
He turned, walking back toward the elevator, pausing just before the doors opened.
“And Miss Brooks,” he said without turning.
“Yes?”
“Eat something before you collapse.”
The doors closed, leaving me standing there, clutching the Peterson file to my chest, the echo of his words warm against the cold silence.
---
Later that night,
I stumbled into our apartment, dropping my bag and the neatly organized Peterson file on the counter. Sophie was asleep on the couch again, the TV casting soft light across her face.
I walked over, brushing a strand of hair from her forehead, letting the exhaustion wash over me.
I didn’t know what I was getting myself into at Cole Industries.
But as I looked at Sophie, I knew one thing for certain:
I would survive it.
- Writer
