The quiet rhythm they'd fallen into after the confession lasted exactly eleven days.
Eleven mornings of coffee waiting on the island.
Eleven evenings of careful conversation that never quite crossed the line.
Eleven nights of Alex walking past her door without stopping.
Ella told herself it was progress. Slow. Painful. But progress.
She was wrong.
It started on a Thursday afternoon.
Alex was in his office at Harrington Tower, staring at a spreadsheet that refused to make sense. His phone buzzed. Marcus.
Meet me at the lounge. 30 mins. Important.
Alex frowned. Marcus rarely texted like that.
He grabbed his coat. Left.
The lounge was half-empty—dim lights, leather booths, the low murmur of after-work drinks. Marcus was already there, in the back corner, two whiskeys on the table.
