His Favorite Confession

The harsh glare of her laptop screen was the only source of light in Alora’s small apartment. Shadows stretched long and distorted across the peeling wallpaper. It was 1:15 AM, and her head was throbbing with a dull, persistent ache that echoed right behind her eyes from staring at endless spreadsheets for twelve hours straight. She took a long sip of lukewarm water, letting the cool liquid soothe her dry throat before staring down at her phone resting flat on the cluttered desk. Hesitating for just a second, she tapped the dark glass, opening Echo—the anonymous voice application she had secretly downloaded three months ago when the crushing burnout from her job became too heavy to carry alone. No profile pictures. No real names. No video feeds to judge your appearance or exhaustion. Just dark interface backgrounds and soft, disembodied voices echoing through the night, connecting lonely souls across the static of the internet. She tapped the familiar blue connection icon. Within seconds, the screen status flickered from Connecting... to Connected. A low, deep voice rasped straight through her earphones—tired, smooth, and instantly grounding her racing thoughts. "You're up late tonight, Little Star," he said quietly, a hint of genuine concern wrapping around the words. Alora sank back into her creaking office chair, letting out a heavy, shuddering breath she didn't realize she was holding. Her shoulders slumped as the heavy weight of the day began to melt away just a fraction. "My new boss arrives tomorrow," she whispered into the mic, pulling her knees up toward her chest. "The board appointed some ruthless prodigy from the overseas branch, and my department has been working eighteen-hour days just to make sure his coffee order doesn't ruin his mood." A faint, gravelly chuckle came through the line, rich and warm against the quiet hum of her room. "Sounds like a real tyrant." "He is a tyrant," Alora sighed, closing her eyes and pressing her fingertips hard against her throbbing temples. "Everyone at the firm is terrified out of their minds. They say he fires people for simple typos in email subject lines, that he eats junior associates for breakfast. I just want to do my job, build my career, and not get crushed by someone’s massive, unchecked ego." "Maybe he's just under a lot of pressure, too," the voice replied gently, a subtle note of dry humor lacing his low tone. "Taking over a massive enterprise isn't exactly a walk in the park." "Whose side are you on, Midnight?" she teased softly, a genuine, soft smile finally touching her lips for the first time in hours. "Always yours," he murmured softly into the mic, the intimacy of his tone sending an involuntary shiver down her spine. "You work harder than anyone I know, Star. Don't let some arrogant suit break your spirit before he even walks through the front door." Alora smiled into the quiet, dark room. She didn't know his real name, what he looked like, or where in the world he was sitting at this exact moment, bathed in the glow of his own screen. All she knew was that for thirty minutes every night, this stranger was the only person who truly listened to her without judgment. "Thanks, Midnight," she whispered, her voice thick with gratitude. "I really needed to hear that." "Get some sleep, Alora—" He caught himself instantly, his breath hitching as he cleared his throat awkwardly. "I mean, Star. Sleep well." "Goodnight, Midnight." The next morning at 8:45 AM, the corporate lobby was suffocatingly tense, thick with the scent of expensive cologne and simmering anxiety. Alora adjusted her dark blazer, holding a thick stack of quarterly financial reports snugly against her chest, her knuckles turning white from her grip. All around her, colleagues were nervously straightening their ties, smoothing down skirts, and double-checking desks as heavy, deliberate footsteps echoed near the glass elevators. The polished brass doors slid open with a quiet, synchronized hum. A tall man in an impeccably tailored charcoal suit stepped out. He had sharp, striking features, dark piercing eyes that seemed to miss nothing, and an aura of absolute, unyielding command that made the entire floor hold its breath. Hayden Vance. He didn't glance left or right as he walked with purposeful strides toward the corner executive office. But as he passed Alora’s desk, a loose summary sheet from her folder slipped and fluttered downward, defying gravity before landing right at his polished leather shoes. Hayden stopped dead in his tracks. The entire room seemed to freeze, breathing suspended in collective terror. He looked down slowly at the stray paper, then raised his dark gaze to meet Alora's eyes. His expression was completely impassive, cold, and entirely unreadable. "If your attention to detail is as loose as your grip on paperwork, Miss..." He paused, scanning her ID badge with an icy, analytical glance. "...Alora, we are going to have a very long quarter." Alora’s hands tightened around her folder until her fingers ached, her chin lifting slightly as she met his sharp stare head-on without flinching. She refused to cower like the others. "The reports are completely flawless, Mr. Vance," she replied, her voice steady despite the adrenaline spiking in her veins. "You are welcome to review them in your office." A faint, almost imperceptible spark flashed in Hayden's dark eyes—a flicker of surprise hidden deep behind the frost. He didn't say another word, turning sharply on his heel and stepping straight into his glass enclosure, the heavy door clicking shut behind him. Alora took a slow, deep breath, her heart hammering wildly against her ribs. Arrogant tyrant. Little did she know, inside his pristine glass office, Hayden sat down at his grand executive desk, rubbed the bridge of his nose, and pulled out his phone. He stared at the silent Echo app icon, thinking about the fiercely spirited girl who had complained about him just seven hours ago.