Dylan's POV

The elevator opened with a soft chime, but the silence that met me on the 48th floor of The Marlowe was absolute. My penthouse always welcomed me like this: pristine, modern, and empty. Too empty.

I dropped my briefcase on the polished console table by the door, loosened my tie, and rolled my shoulders as if I could shrug the day off. But the echo of it followed me in-a boardroom charged with tension, a bold pitch, a spilled coffee, and Elena Reyes standing tall even after she'd stained my shirt and made my pulse stutter.

There was something in her eyes-familiar, but not. Not in a way I could name.

I poured myself a drink, the amber liquid catching the recessed lighting. The view from the glass wall looked out over Manhattan like a throne surveying its kingdom. But even with the city sprawled beneath me, it didn't feel like enough tonight.

A door clicked open behind me.

"You really should consider hiring a housekeeper," a familiar voice called. Smooth. Sharp. Displeased.

Veronica Lancaster.

I turned slowly. There she was, framed in the doorway in heels that didn't belong in a home and a white dress that was too polished for someone just dropping by. She walked like the floor owed her something, all grace and calculation.

"This place always smells like concrete and ambition," she said with a wrinkle of her nose, glancing around. "No food, no music. Just you, your silence, and overpriced whiskey."

"Did you come here to insult me or just to remind me I don't live in a Pottery Barn catalog?" I asked dryly.

She smirked. "Touché."

I leaned against the kitchen counter, watching her as she dropped her coat over the back of a bar stool.

"You weren't invited."

"Since when has that mattered between us?"

I said nothing. Her presence scratched at my patience, and yet I tolerated her. Not because I wanted to. Because the merger between Harper Corp and Lancaster Holdings was still very much on the table. And she was still very much her father's favorite pawn.

"I saw the pitch notes from this afternoon," she said, idly opening the fridge, unimpressed. "Elena Reyes. Reyes & Bloom. She's ambitious."

I watched her closely. "You reading pitch decks now?"

"Just keeping tabs on what might become mine one day," she said, flashing that cold smile.

"This isn't a marriage, Veronica. It's business."

She closed the fridge, eyes sharp. "You think I don't know that?"

"Then act like it. Don't drop in unannounced. Don't snoop. And stop pretending this-whatever this is-has anything to do with us."

There was a moment, sharp and still.

Then she smiled faintly. "Touchy tonight."

"I had a long day."

"So did I. Just thought I'd unwind."

"Not here."

That landed.

Veronica studied me, then gathered her coat with a dramatic flip of her hair. "Fine. But don't keep me waiting too long for that dinner you promised my father."

"I never promised him anything."

"Same difference," she said with a wink, and she was gone.

The door clicked shut. Her perfume lingered longer than she did. I exhaled slowly, rubbing the back of my neck.

A shower didn't fix the weight between my shoulders, but it helped. The water beat down, hot and unforgiving, dragging my thoughts back to Elena-the way she'd stood her ground, even with wet coffee down her blouse. I hadn't meant to look again. But I did.

Afterward, wrapped in a towel, I opened my laptop and tended to what couldn't wait. Internal memos. Overseas calls. A breakdown from legal. And one stubborn pitch replaying in my head.

The next morning, I was already in the office before 8 a.m. Lucas, my assistant, hovered near the espresso machine.

"Coffee?" he asked.

"Black. Double shot. And pull Elena Reyes' file. I want a background check. Keep it discreet."

Lucas blinked. "Personal or professional?"

"Both. Just cover your bases."

He nodded slowly. "Noted."

I barely glanced at him as I took the coffee and walked into the first of three back-to-back meetings.

Throughout the morning, I kept half an eye out. I told myself it was just strategy. If Reyes & Bloom was our newest partner, I had to know who I was dealing with. But part of me just wanted to see if she'd show up. If she'd find a reason to cross paths with me again.

She didn't.

By noon, my schedule had thinned, and I retreated to my office. Lucas appeared five minutes later with a manila folder in hand and a slight hesitation in his step.

"This is... everything," he said, placing it on my desk. "There are a few things you might want to see."

He left, and I opened the folder.

There she was. A scanned copy of her driver's license. A list of previous addresses. One in New Orleans. Educational records. Public interviews. Business filings.

And then-a photo.

Not a headshot. Not professional.

It was grainy, like it had been pulled from a neighborhood newsletter. Elena in jeans and a faded shirt. Laughing.

Holding hands with a little boy.

My chest tightened.

The boy was maybe four, maybe five. Hair dark. Eyes striking. Something about the way he tilted his head...

I stared.

The next page: a news feature. "Local Entrepreneur Makes Waves in New York Market."

Below it, a quote from Elena: "Everything I do is for him."

Him.

I reread the line twice.

My pulse kicked up.

I closed the file slowly.

And for the first time in a long time, I didn't know if the next move was mine-

Or hers.

Elena

A Week and a Few Days Later

It had been nine days since the pitch at Harper Corp.

Not that I was counting. But I can't help it.

In the time since, there had been no emails, no phone calls, not even a polite rejection from Dylan Harper's people. Nothing.

I told myself silence was normal. These things took time. Big companies didn't operate on the same rhythm as small ones like mine. And still, every time my phone buzzed, my stomach twisted like it was being wrung out.

But life had its own rhythm, and I didn't have the luxury of waiting.

The office-if you could call the modest two-room suite above a bookstore in Midtown an office-was finally functional. Faye had her desk set up, and I had my little corner with a good lamp and a coffee machine that only sometimes made alarming noises.

It was something. It was ours.

That morning, Elvis had been particularly clingy during drop-off. "Do you have to go to work today?" he asked, his big brown eyes shining.

"Just for a little," I'd promised, pressing a kiss to his forehead. "We'll read two bedtime stories tonight, okay?"

"Three," he'd countered, already smiling.

"Deal."

Now, hours later, I sat behind my laptop, the glow from the screen making my eyes ache. My inbox was a mix of lukewarm leads and auto-responses.

Faye peeked in from the other room, holding up her phone. "I'm ordering food. You want anything?"

I glanced at the time. "Actually... I think I'll take a walk. I need air."

She nodded. "You okay?"

"Yeah. Just restless."

I threw on my coat and grabbed my bag. Outside, the city felt different. The wind had softened, the sky a low hum of clouds, and the streets not too loud. I headed down the block, unsure of where I was going until I found myself near that café-neutral, quiet, and familiar.

I stepped inside, ordered an oat milk latte, and waited near the window. The bell above the door jingled. I turned instinctively-and froze.

Dylan Harper.

Of all the cafés in Midtown.

He didn't see me at first. He was in a dark coat, sharp as ever, though his tie was slightly loosened. He stepped to the counter, ordered something black and merciless, then finally turned. His gaze caught mine.

For a moment, it was just that-eye contact.

Then a nod.

Then something softer.

"Ms. Reyes," he said as he approached.

"Mr. Harper," I replied, lifting my cup slightly. "Didn't expect to see you here."

"I could say the same."

He gestured to the seat across from me. "Mind if I...?"

I shook my head. "Please."

He sat, set his cup down, then looked at me-not just at me, but into me. It was that same analytical gaze he'd worn during the pitch, like he was trying to solve a riddle no one else saw.

"How's business?" he asked.

"Good," I lied. "Busy."

He gave a small smile. "Let me guess. You're still waiting to hear from us."

I blinked. "Something like that."

"I've been meaning to follow up. The board's reviewing everything. It's not a no."

"That's comforting. I think."

Silence stretched between us, but it wasn't awkward. Just thoughtful. There was a stillness about Dylan, like he was always three steps ahead of whatever he was saying out loud.

"And your son?" he asked casually.

The question caught me. I sipped my drink to buy a second. "He's doing well. Adjusting."

He nodded. "New York's a lot for a kid."

"He's tougher than he looks."

"I'm sure he is."

His phone buzzed, and he glanced at it quickly, frowning slightly before setting it face down.

"I shouldn't keep you," I said.

"I'm in no rush."

Another pause. Then:

"You strike me as someone who's used to managing things on her own," he said.

I shrugged. "I guess I've had practice."

"I meant that as a compliment."

"I'll take it that way, then."

His eyes didn't leave mine. "I find it... refreshing."

That pulled a smile from me, small but real. "You don't meet a lot of people who say what they mean, do you?"

"Not in my circles."

A beat passed. Then he stood. "I should get back. But I'll be in touch."

I stood too. "Thanks for the coffee chat."

"Anytime."

He left with a quiet nod. I stood there a while longer, sipping the last of my latte, unsure of what that conversation had meant-but knowing it would stay with me longer than I wanted to admit.

Back at the office, Faye looked up from her desk. "You spent twenty seven minutes

Seems like you had a meeting with a man"

"What do you mean Faye?" I asked with a slight chuckle.

"You ran into him, didn't you?"

I raised an eyebrow. "How do you...?"

"You've got your 'I just saw a ghost in Armani' face."

I laughed. "It wasn't that dramatic."

She grinned. "So? Did he say anything?"

"We talked. Nothing official."

She tilted her head. "But something... unofficial?"

I didn't answer. Not directly.

Before she could press further, my phone buzzed. An unfamiliar number. I answered.

"Elena Reyes?" a crisp voice asked.

"Yes, speaking."

"This is Julian Ward. I'm the founder of Indigo & West. I was hoping we could schedule a meeting to discuss a potential collaboration."

Indigo & West. A rising agency. Not quite Harper Corp, but well-known.

"Oh. I wasn't expecting this," I said honestly.

"I got your name from a mutual connection who said you were the one to watch."

"Is that so?"

"I'd love to talk through some campaign possibilities. My schedule's flexible this week. Let me know what works for you."

I scribbled down the details, exchanged polite goodbyes, and hung up.

Faye raised an eyebrow. "Business call?"

I nodded slowly. "Julian Ward. He wants to meet."

Her eyes widened. "That's huge."

"I know, right?"

I sat down at my desk, heart thudding just slightly faster. Something was shifting. Something I hadn't planned for.

And deep down, I couldn't help but wonder if Dylan Harper's silence wasn't the only thing about to change.