THE MAN BEHIND THE GLASS
477 Words
Morning came with the quiet arrogance of Paris sunlight.
Juliet stood before the mirror, fastening the last button of her blouse. The reflection staring back at her was composed, professional, untouchable but her eyes betrayed her.
On her desk, the mysterious envelope glowed faintly in the light, as if daring her to follow where it led.
She slipped it into her purse and left.
The Morel Foundation towered above Rue du Rivoli, glass and steel gleaming like a monument to ambition. Inside, everything smelled of polish and power. Juliet had designed part of the building herself a tribute to Michael’s dream of rebuilding forgotten Parisian neighborhoods.
Now his dream belonged to Miles Morel.
Miles is her brother’s best friend. Her first heartbreak. The boy who once swore he’d never lie to her, and the man who disappeared the night Michael died.
Juliet’s heels clicked against marble as she entered his office.
He was there by the window, suit crisp, jaw unshaven, eyes that still burned with the same storm she remembered. Paris stretched behind him like a painting, but it was his silence that filled the room.
“Juliet,” he said softly, voice deeper than she remembered. “It’s been a long time.”
She smiled without warmth. “Two years, three months, and fourteen days. But who’s counting?”
He exhaled, gaze lowering. “You shouldn’t have come.”
“I got a letter.” She laid the envelope on his desk. “Your seal. Michael’s handwriting.”
His face changed just slightly. A flicker of surprise, quickly buried.
“Where did you get this?”
“On my doorstep. Last night.”
He picked it up, thumb tracing the wax. “It’s not from me.”
“Then who?”
“Someone who wants to hurt you.”
She stepped closer, her perfume brushing the air between them. “You mean someone who knows the truth?”
“Juliet, don’t start this again.”
“Start what? Asking why my brother’s last phone call was to you?”
His jaw tightened. “Because he trusted me.”
“Did you trust him back?”
He looked away, hands clenched at his sides. “You should go.”
She hesitated, her heart breaking under the weight of what wasn’t said. “You always run when things get difficult, Miles. Just like before.”
He met her eyes finally, voice rough. “And you still don’t know when to stop chasing ghosts.”
“Maybe,” she whispered, “because one of them looks like you.”
Their gazes locked in a collision of guilt and desire. For one dangerous heartbeat, the years vanished. Then Miles turned away, the moment shattered.
As she left, his reflection followed her in the glass.
And behind that reflection, just for a second, she thought she saw another figure move.
- Writer
