Life in the hiding

Elara POV: If there’s one thing I’ve mastered at twenty-one, it’s invisibility. Not the dramatic kind. Not the vanish-into-thin-air, smoke-and-mirrors kind. Just the quiet, dependable, don’t-look-twice kind. The kind that lets you exist in plain sight without anyone really seeing you. I stand in front of my mirror every morning and build that version of myself carefully. My hazel eyes are the first thing people notice — they sit somewhere between green and brown, depending on the light. In sunlight they look almost honeyed, warm and bright. In dim office lighting, they darken into something deeper, more unreadable. I’ve learned to keep my expressions mild so they don’t betray me. Too much emotion, and the gold in them seems to glow. I can’t explain it. I’ve just… noticed. My hair falls in long chestnut waves down my back, thick and slightly rebellious unless I tame it with a flat iron. I usually don’t. Soft waves make me look approachable. Safe. I part it slightly off-center, let it frame my face and soften my jawline. People trust softness. A little concealer. A thin line of brown eyeliner. Nude lipstick. Professional, but forgettable. I choose a cream blouse today — modest neckline, structured sleeves — and charcoal trousers that fit well but don’t scream for attention. I look like a girl who files reports on time and never causes problems. Perfect. By 8:47 a.m., I’m stepping into the glass-and-steel building that houses Altrix Global’s headquarters. The lobby is all polished marble floors and intimidating silence, broken only by the rhythmic click of heels and the distant hum of elevators. I work on the 14th floor in Business Operations. Translation: spreadsheets, coordination emails, quiet chaos. The elevator ride up is uneventful. A man in a navy suit scrolls through his phone. A woman from HR adjusts her badge. No one looks at anyone else. Normal. The doors open, and the scent of roasted coffee and office carpet greets me like a predictable hug. But something is different. There’s a buzz. Not loud. Not obvious. But present. Like static before a storm. I barely take three steps toward my desk before Zara spins around in her chair so dramatically I’m surprised she doesn’t topple over. “There she is!” she stage-whispers, eyes sparkling. Zara is the opposite of invisible. Where I soften myself, she sharpens. Her eyeliner is always bold, her outfits always fitted, her lipstick unapologetically red. She thrives on attention the way plants thrive on sunlight. “You’re three minutes late,” she accuses. “It’s 8:50.” “Exactly.” I set my bag down, pretending calm. “Did the building catch fire?” “Worse.” I sigh. “Daniel microwaved fish again.” She gasps in outrage. “Don’t even joke about that.” I sit, boot up my computer, and brace myself. She leans forward across the divider between our desks. “He’s back.” I blink slowly. “Who?” She stares at me like I’ve personally offended her ancestors. “The CEO.” Silence. Then I blink again. “We have one of those?” She throws a sticky note at my face. “Of course we have one. Just because he’s been abroad for three years doesn’t mean he doesn’t exist.” Three years. I’ve worked here for one. Meaning I’ve never seen him. I open my email, pretending mild curiosity. “Thought he was building international branches.” “He was.” Zara lowers her voice dramatically. “Europe. Singapore. Somewhere mysterious. No one knows the full story.” “That sounds very LinkedIn.” She ignores me. “Emergency executive meeting at 7 a.m. Senior management was practically running.” That explains the tension. Energy has texture. Most people don’t feel it. I do. It’s like temperature shifts against my skin. Emotional undercurrents brushing the air. Today, it’s electric. I try to ignore the faint warmth spreading across my palms — the same warmth that appears whenever I sense strong emotion nearby. Stress. Anticipation. Fear. It collects in me like heat seeking release. “You’re not reacting correctly,” Zara complains. “This is the biggest gossip in three years.” I give her a small smile. “Okay. I’m reacting. Wow. Stunning.” She narrows her eyes. “You’re impossible.” Maybe. Or maybe I just don’t get excited about powerful men returning from overseas. Because powerful men mean change. And change is dangerous. By mid-morning, the gossip has mutated into full-blown speculation. “He fired two regional heads already.” “He’s restructuring.” “He’s single.” “He’s engaged.” “He’s ruthless.” “He’s brilliant.” The rumors stack like unstable towers. Zara keeps swiveling toward me every few minutes with updates gathered from the Marketing department’s group chat. Apparently, someone saw him in person. Tall. Impeccable suit. Cold eyes. Or warm eyes. Depends who’s describing him. I try not to care. I really do. But around 10:12 a.m., a wave of anxiety rolls across the floor so strongly it nearly makes me grip my desk. My palms heat instantly. Someone nearby is panicking. I glance around casually. Near the printers, a junior analyst — Samir — is staring at his hand. There’s a thin red line across his finger, blood welling slowly. Paper cut. Tiny. Insignificant. But he looks faint. I swallow. No. Not here. Not at work. I stand slowly and grab a tissue from my drawer. “Hey,” I say lightly as I walk over. “You’re going to bleed dramatically all over the quarterly reports.” He gives a weak laugh. “It’s stupid. I just — I hate blood.” I hold out the tissue. When he takes it, our fingers brush. Heat surges through me. I focus. Just a little. Just enough. The warmth slips from my skin into his. The cut seals quietly beneath the tissue. No glow. No dramatic flash. Just skin knitting together as if it had never separated. He blinks down at his finger. “Oh.” “You’re good,” I say quickly. “See? Crisis averted.” He nods, slightly dazed, and walks back to his desk. My pulse races. That was reckless. But small things are easy. Paper cuts. Headaches. Minor pain. It’s when things are bigger that control becomes harder. I flex my fingers, waiting for the heat to fade. “Did you just flirt with Samir?” Zara demands when I sit down. I stare at her. “I handed him a tissue.” “Same thing.” I roll my eyes. Normal. Keep it normal. The shift in energy happens all at once. Conversations soften. Keyboards slow. Someone near the elevators straightens abruptly. And then I feel it. Not panic. Not anxiety. Something heavier. Command. The elevator doors open at the far end of the floor. I don’t look immediately. I don’t want to. But the air changes temperature. Footsteps — measured, confident — cross the marble. Zara grips my arm under the desk. “Oh. My. God.” I exhale slowly and glance up. He walks with two executives trailing behind him. Tall, yes. Dark charcoal suit tailored so precisely it looks sculpted onto him. Black hair, slightly longer on top, pushed back effortlessly. Sharp jawline. Composed expression. But it’s his eyes that catch me. Not because of their color — I’m too far to see that clearly. But because they scan. Not lazily. Not arrogantly. Carefully. Observing. Assessing. He isn’t just walking the floor. He’s studying it. My palms warm again. Stronger this time. There’s something coiled beneath his calm exterior. Pressure. Expectation. Responsibility heavy enough to bend most people. He pauses near Marketing. Speaks briefly to someone. Nods once. Moves on. Zara’s nails dig into my sleeve. “He’s unfairly attractive.” “Shh,” I whisper. He’s getting closer. My heart does something stupid and irregular. Not attraction. Instinct. Like standing near a thunderstorm. He stops two desks away from mine. My breathing slows automatically. Control. Always control. He asks a question — voice low, steady. The employee answers nervously. He listens without interrupting. That surprises me. Then — His gaze shifts. And lands on me. Directly. I freeze. Hazel meets something darker. For half a second, the world narrows. I feel it. A flicker. Not from him. From me. Heat sparks across my skin so suddenly I nearly gasp. Does he feel that? No. Impossible. His expression doesn’t change. But his eyes linger a fraction too long. Then — He moves on. Just like that. The air returns slowly. Zara exhales dramatically. “I need water.” I stare at my screen, though I’m not reading anything. Why did that feel like being seen? I don’t like being seen. By 1:00 p.m., the floor is vibrating with exaggerated retellings of the CEO’s walkthrough. Zara and I escape to the break room. She’s mid-analysis of his wristwatch — “definitely Swiss, probably costs more than my car” — when I finally speak. “Did you feel that?” I ask before I can stop myself. She frowns. “Feel what?” “The tension.” She snorts. “That’s called charisma.” No. It wasn’t that. It was something else. I shake it off. “I think restructuring is coming,” I say instead. She groans. “Don’t ruin my fantasy.” I stare down at my hands wrapped around my coffee cup. The warmth under my skin hasn’t fully faded. And I can’t shake the feeling that when his eyes met mine… Something shifted. Not just in the office. In me. The day almost ends quietly. Almost. At 4:42 p.m., a sharp crash echoes from the hallway near the conference rooms. Chairs scrape. Someone shouts. I’m on my feet before I process it. A senior manager lies on the floor, pale, breathing unevenly. Heart. It’s his heart. I can feel it — erratic, stuttering. People crowd uselessly. “Call an ambulance!” “It’s already done!” My pulse pounds in my ears. I shouldn’t. Not here. Not in front of— The CEO steps forward from the edge of the crowd. Calm but alert. “Give him space.” His voice cuts cleanly through the chaos. I kneel before I can rethink it. “I know basic first aid,” I lie smoothly. The heat in my palms surges violently now, almost painful. This is bigger than a paper cut. Riskier. If I push too much, it shows. If I hold back, he could die. I place my hand over the manager’s chest. Focus. Control. Channel it carefully. Warmth floods outward — not blazing, not glowing — but steady, precise. I imagine the rhythm of a healthy heartbeat. Strong. Even. My skin burns. Seconds stretch. The manager’s breathing stabilizes. Pulse evens. Color returns faintly to his cheeks. Someone gasps. The CEO is watching. I can feel it. The ambulance sirens wail in the distance. I pull my hand away just before the paramedics rush in. They check vitals. Exchange surprised looks. “He’s stabilizing,” one mutters. I stand slowly, dizzy. The CEO steps closer. Too close. “You handled that well,” he says quietly. His voice is controlled, but his eyes are sharp. Searching. I force a small, harmless smile. “Lucky timing.” He studies me one second longer than comfortable. Then nods. “Good work, Miss…” “Elara.” “Miss Elara.” He walks away. But I know that look. It wasn’t gratitude. It was suspicion. When I finally leave the building that evening, the sky is streaked gold and violet. My hazel eyes catch the sunset as I glance up. I blend into the crowd on the sidewalk. Invisible again. But something tells me that won’t last much longer. Because today, the CEO returned after three years abroad. And for the first time since I started hiding what I can do… Someone looked at me like he almost saw the truth.