Destiny’s game

CHAPTER TWO

There was a particular kind of exhaustion that came from pretending you were fine.

Not the physical kind—my body was strong, capable, obedient when I needed it to be—but the mental strain of constantly measuring yourself. Of choosing what to reveal and what to lock away. Of smiling just enough to appear human without inviting curiosity.

By the end of my first week at Varga & Köhler, I had mastered that balance.

Ljubljana revealed itself to me in fragments. Morning fog curling low over the river. Trams humming softly like background thoughts. Cafés that didn’t rush you out after one drink. I walked everywhere, not because I had to, but because movement kept my mind quiet. When I walked, I didn’t think about my parents. I didn’t think about unanswered questions. I just existed.

At work, I was Jane Smith, consultant. Efficient. Reliable. Quietly competent.

Lukas Weiss did not hover, but he noticed. I learned that quickly.

He noticed the way I prepared before meetings, the way I framed objections carefully instead of aggressively, the way I didn’t speak unless I had something precise to say. He noticed when my projections aligned almost perfectly with senior forecasts. He noticed when I stayed late without being asked.

What he didn’t notice—or maybe what I didn’t allow him to notice—was how tightly I held myself together.

“Coffee?”

The question startled me. I looked up from my laptop to find Lukas standing beside my desk, holding two cups. The office was quieter than usual; most of the team had stepped out for lunch.

“I don’t usually interrupt,” he added, as if he sensed my hesitation.

“I could use a break,” I said after a moment.

We walked to the small kitchen near the windows. He handed me a cup—black, no sugar. I wondered briefly if it was coincidence or observation.

“You’re adjusting well,” he said, leaning against the counter. “Not everyone manages that in their first week.”

“I don’t like feeling unprepared,” I replied.

“That sounds like someone who’s been forced to adapt before.”

I met his eyes. There it was again—that subtle perception that made me feel exposed without being understood.

“Or someone who learned early that preparation is control,” I said lightly.

He smiled at that, just a fraction. “Control is an illusion,” he said. “But a useful one.”

The silence that followed wasn’t awkward. It was… careful. As though we were both aware that certain subjects existed just outside the perimeter of what was safe to say.

“Can I ask you something?” he said finally.

“You already are,” I replied.

He huffed a quiet laugh. “Fair enough. Why consulting? With your background, you could’ve gone into finance, operations, even policy.”

“I like seeing how decisions ripple,” I said. “Who they help. Who they hurt.”

Something flickered across his face. Too quick to name, too deliberate to ignore.

“Business isn’t always clean,” he said.

“No,” I agreed. “But pretending it is doesn’t make it better.”

He studied me for a moment, as if committing something to memory. I wondered, suddenly, what he knew. What files he had read. What names he had seen long before he ever saw mine.

Because he had seen them. I didn’t know that yet—but the truth had a way of pressing itself into conversations, even uninvited.

That evening, I worked late again. The project we were handling involved restructuring a logistics firm with cross-border operations—complex, politically sensitive, and deeply entangled with old contracts. The kind of work that lived in gray areas.

At some point, I realized Lukas was still there too. His office light was on.

I should have left. Instead, I knocked.

“Yes?” he called.

I stepped inside. “You asked for revised projections by tomorrow morning. I finished early.”

He looked up from his screen. “Already?”

“I don’t sleep much.”

He didn’t comment on that. He took the tablet from me, scrolling through the data. His brow furrowed slightly—not in disagreement, but concentration.

“This is solid,” he said. “You caught a risk factor the others missed.”

“Historical liabilities,” I said. “They tend to resurface.”

His fingers paused on the screen.

“You think the past always comes back?” he asked.

“I think it waits,” I said. “Until people are comfortable enough to stop watching for it.”

His gaze lifted slowly to mine. For the first time since we met, something real passed between us—something heavier than professional respect.

“Be careful with that instinct,” he said quietly. “Digging can be dangerous.”

I felt a familiar tightening in my chest. Not fear. Recognition.

“So can ignorance,” I replied.

Neither of us spoke after that.

I left shortly after, my mind buzzing with the exchange. I told myself it was nothing. A philosophical difference. A moment of intellectual tension.

But later that night, lying awake in my apartment, his words replayed in my head.

Digging can be dangerous.

He said it like someone who knew.

⸻

The call came two days later.

Unknown number. I almost didn’t answer.

“Jane,” the voice said. “It’s Martin.”

My grip tightened on the phone. “You shouldn’t be calling me.”

“I know,” he said. “But something came up.”

Martin had worked with my father years ago. He was the only reason I knew my parents’ deaths weren’t an accident. He had never given me names—only warnings.

“What kind of something?” I asked.

“A firm in Central Europe,” he said carefully. “Old contracts. Old money. I saw a familiar name during a review.”

My heart stuttered. “Which name?”

There was a pause. Then: my family name.

The air seemed to leave the room.

“I thought you should know,” Martin continued. “You’re closer than you think.”

After the call ended, I sat very still. Then I laughed—once, sharply, without humor.

Of course I was closer than I thought. I had walked straight into the center of it. The past had not waited patiently. It had simply followed me.

The next morning, Lukas assigned me to work directly with him on the next phase of the project.

“Any objections?” he asked in the team meeting.

“No,” I said evenly, even as my pulse thundered.

Working closely with him was… difficult. Not because he was demanding—he was precise, fair, almost restrained—but because proximity stripped away distance. I noticed things I hadn’t before. The way he paused before answering certain questions. The way his jaw tightened when legacy contracts were mentioned. The way his eyes darkened when conversations turned toward accountability.

And then there were the moments that had nothing to do with work.

Shared glances across conference tables. Brief smiles when one of us made a sharp point. The quiet understanding that built in the spaces between words.

I didn’t want to feel drawn to him. Wanting had never ended well for me.

One evening, after a long day of meetings, we found ourselves walking out together.

“It’s raining,” he noted.

“I noticed.”

“You didn’t bring an umbrella.”

“I don’t mind getting wet.”

He studied me for a moment, then handed me his coat without a word.

“I insist,” he said when I hesitated. “It’s colder than it looks.”

I took it reluctantly. His warmth lingered in the fabric, unfamiliar and unsettling.

“Thank you,” I said.

“You don’t like owing people,” he observed.

“I don’t like assumptions.”

He smiled faintly. “Fair.”

As we walked, the rain softened the city, blurring edges, muting sound. Ljubljana felt suspended, as though holding its breath.

“You never talk about your family,” he said suddenly.

I stopped walking.

“I didn’t realize I had to.”

“You don’t,” he said quickly. “I was just… curious.”

“Curiosity can be intrusive,” I said.

“Yes,” he agreed. “It can.”

For a second, I wondered if he knew. If somewhere in his past, my family name existed as more than a footnote. If he had read it on documents long before he ever read my résumé.

But when I looked at him, I saw no recognition. Only restraint.

“I lost my parents,” I said finally. “A few years ago.”

“I’m sorry,” he said quietly. And this time, it didn’t sound rehearsed.

“It changed things,” I continued. “How I see people. Decisions. Consequences.”

He nodded. “Loss does that.”

We stood there, rain falling softly around us, the space between us heavy with things unsaid.

“I should go,” I said.

“Yes,” he replied. “You should.”

Neither of us moved for a moment longer than necessary.

As I walked away, his coat still around my shoulders, one thought echoed louder than the rest:

I had come here to discover who I was.

I hadn’t expected that discovery to involve him.

And I certainly hadn’t expected that the man I was slowly, dangerously being drawn to might already be connected to the very past I was trying to uncover.