Three weeks.
That was how long Emily Woods had survived inside the walls of Velmonte Technologies, and not once had she felt like she truly belonged. It was a place too sharp, too polished—like walking through glass corridors in bare feet, trying not to bleed.
The weekend had vanished like smoke. She hadn't stepped outside, hadn't tasted sunlight. She'd been buried in files, cross-referencing data points, rewriting fragmented reports, and debugging code until the lines danced before her tired eyes.
Now it was Monday again. And for the first time in three weeks, she wasn't just submitting her work to Damian.
No—this time, she was delivering it straight to the man at the top.
Alexander Velmonte.
The thought alone made her stomach tighten. She hadn't seen him more than twice since her first day—always from a distance, always in passing. And yet, his presence had a weight that lingered long after he was gone. His name alone seemed to hush entire rooms.
Now she had to enter his office. Alone.
She reached the top floor and paused in front of the towering double doors, the polished wood and steel trim gleaming under the soft overhead lights. She exhaled slowly, forcing calm into her jittering hands, and knocked.
"Come in."
The voice was low. Controlled.
She pushed the door open.
His office was like him—sleek, cold, and silently intimidating. The walls were bare except for a single abstract painting that bled with dark hues. A tall window framed the skyline behind him, casting silver light across his desk.
Alexander Velmonte sat at the center of it all like a living sculpture—dark shirt, sleeves rolled, pale eyes glinting under the dim light. There was no warmth in his gaze. Only scrutiny.
Emily stepped forward with careful poise, clutching the slim report folder. Her shoes met the edge of the rug, but just as she moved around the corner of his desk, her foot caught against the rise of the carpet.
Her body tilted forward.
She gasped—but before she could fully fall, she instinctively reached for the edge of his desk.
Too far.
In her panic, her balance shifted, and she stumbled forward—not headfirst, not dramatic, but enough to land her off-center—right against his chair.
Or more precisely—into him.
One knee landed against the edge of his thigh, the rest of her crashing down with a thud softened only by the strength of the man now holding her upright with startling reflex.
Time fractured.
His hand had moved—fast—gripping her firmly by the arm, the other bracing her back, keeping her from tumbling harder. She was awkwardly positioned, eyes wide, breath caught in her throat, face far too close to his.
She didn't dare breathe.
Alexander stared at her in complete silence, his expression unreadable. His gaze—icy and sharp—swept across her face. And then, just for a fraction of a second, it paused.
Her eyes.
Pale green.
Strikingly familiar.
His jaw tightened imperceptibly. The same shade as—
No. It couldn't be.
Still, he didn't let go of her immediately. Not because he was being kind, but because he was studying her. Watching her reaction. Reading her body language like a file he hadn't yet decrypted.
Finally, he released her arm.
"You've made your presence," he said coolly. "No need to make it dramatic."
His voice sliced like a scalpel—elegant, precise, and deliberately cold.
Emily quickly scrambled off him, nearly knocking the edge of the desk with her hip in her haste to stand upright. Her heart was hammering against her ribs.
"I—I apologize, Mr. Velmonte. The rug caught— I didn't mean—"
He raised a hand—just slightly—and she stopped talking.
"Hand me the report."
She extended it without another word, avoiding his gaze now, though she could feel his still on her.
His fingers brushed the file from hers, and without a second glance, he set it aside on the desk.
"I'll review it when I have time," he said simply. "You're dismissed."
Emily nodded, backing away with barely a breath in her lungs. She turned and exited quickly, resisting the urge to sprint.
Once the door shut behind her, she finally exhaled.
Smooth, Woods. Very smooth.
Inside the office, Alexander didn't look at the report. Not yet.
He leaned back slowly, fingertips pressed together as he replayed that brief moment again.
The feel of her weight crashing into him—unintentional. The panic. The clumsiness.
But her eyes…
They were the exact shade that had haunted the footage from two weeks ago. Unmistakable.
His gaze flicked toward the hidden monitor across the room. The paused footage was still frozen there.
Pale green eyes.
But…
Her hair was blonde.
And he had no way of knowing if she bore a tattoo.
Not yet.
Emily buried herself in work as soon as she got back to her desk. Her cheeks still hadn't cooled off entirely.
The fall. The awkward stumble. The brief moment her entire body weight had landed on Alexander Velmonte, and the way his hand had steadied her with zero hesitation, like he did it all the time. Like she wasn't the first person to lose every ounce of dignity in his office.
Smooth, Emily. Real smooth.
She leaned forward, trying to focus on the document on her screen, though the words were starting to blur together. Just as she reached for her coffee, a familiar voice cut through her thoughts.
"So," Sophia said, sliding into the empty chair beside her desk, "have you seen Mr. Velmonte today?"
Emily blinked. "What?"
Sophia grinned. "Mr. Velmonte. Alexander Velmonte. The walking sculpture of a man who owns this place. Did you see him today?"
Emily hesitated, her hand still hovering over her mouse. Her mind offered an unwanted replay of the morning's encounter: the stumble, his firm grip, her near face-plant into his chest. She felt the heat creeping back up her neck.
"Um…" she mumbled, eyes fixed on her screen. "I might have… briefly."
Sophia leaned in closer, clearly not buying her attempt at deflection. "He is so handsome, I swear. That face? The jawline? Like it was carved with intention. And his eyes—ugh—those blue eyes. Cold, intense, perfect. Don't even get me started on his arms. Did you see the veins in his forearms today? That man looks like he was genetically engineered to ruin women's standards."
Emily gave a weak chuckle, still hiding behind her screen.
"And his lips," Sophia continued dreamily. "Just—ugh. Sharp, quiet, confident. Like he doesn't even need to speak to make your heart skip."
Emily cleared her throat. "I… guess he's okay."
Sophia blinked, staring at her in mock betrayal. "Okay? Just okay?"
Before Emily could form a response, she stood abruptly and grabbed her phone. "Let's go grab lunch. I need to get out of here."
Sophia tilted her head, smirking. "You're blushing."
"I'm hungry," Emily replied flatly, already walking ahead.
Sophia followed, still smiling. "You so fell for him."
Emily groaned under her breath and kept walking, refusing to answer.
Outside the office building, the sun shone gently against the sidewalk as Emily and Sophia strolled down to a small restaurant tucked just off the corner. It was one of those hidden gems—quaint, cozy, and always smelling like something freshly baked. The restaurant didn't look like much from the outside, but it held the kind of warmth that only came with time and stories shared across tables.
It was called Smith's Place, named after the owner—an old man with grey hair and dark brown eyes who always wore a kind smile.
As soon as they stepped in, the familiar scent of sizzling spices and warm bread hit Emily, and before she could even glance around, a voice called her name.
"Emily?"
She turned, unsure at first, until her eyes settled on the man's familiar face. Though his skin had wrinkled with age, and his hair had faded into silver, the moment he smiled—it all came rushing back.
"Mr. Smith," she breathed, her face lighting up. Without thinking, she ran into his open arms, wrapping him in a warm, heartfelt hug.
"This place hasn't changed a bit," she said, laughing.
"Neither have you," Mr. Smith chuckled. "Still running in here like it's your second home."
And it had been. Back when she was younger, her family used to eat here almost every weekend. On days when her parents worked late, she would drop by after school, sometimes staying behind the counter with Mr. Smith, helping him fold napkins or carry menus. Some people mistook him for her grandfather, and honestly, she never minded. He'd been there more times than she could count.
Mr. Smith insisted on giving them their meals on the house, but Emily still insisted on paying something, placing the money gently into the tip jar when he wasn't looking. They left the restaurant laughing, bellies full and hearts warm.
"That was amazing," Sophia grinned as they walked back. "I see why you love this place. The food? A ten. That stew? Unreal."
Emily smiled, nodding. "Yeah… it felt like going back in time for a moment."
They were still talking, heads slightly turned toward each other, when someone suddenly stepped into their path—tall, sharp, and entirely too silent.
Emily barely had a second to react before she slammed right into a hard chest.
"Ow—can't you—" she started, reaching up to rub her forehead. But when her eyes flicked up and met those pale, icy blue ones, the words shriveled in her throat.
Alexander Velmonte.
She straightened immediately. "Sorry, sir."
He glanced down at her, expression unreadable. Then, with unsettling calm, he reached into his inner coat pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and casually wiped the front of his blazer where she'd bumped into him.
"Don't make it a habit of bumping into me, Mrs. Emily," he said coldly, slipping the handkerchief back into place.
Emily blinked. "It's Miss Emily, sir," she corrected, her voice steady despite the thump of her heart.
Without waiting for a reaction, she grabbed Sophia's arm and brushed past him, her cheeks burning.
Alexander watched them disappear into the building, his jaw tensing slightly. His gaze lingered on Emily's figure for a moment longer than necessary. Blonde hair. Green eyes.
Andrew came walking toward him just then, a tablet tucked under his arm.
"Do you know Emily?" Alexander asked without turning.
Andrew shook his head. "No never seen her in person."
"I want you to run a background check. Everything you can find," Alexander said quietly. "I want to know who she is."
Andrew raised an eyebrow but nodded. "Sure. I'll start now."
Alexander didn't say another word as he continued down the corridor, the same thought gnawing at the back of his mind:
Something about her didn't quite add up.
Later that evening, Emily returned home in her usual state—drained, sore, and clinging to the last threads of energy left in her body. She dropped her bag by the door, kicked off her shoes, and headed straight for the bathroom. The moment the warm water cascaded down her back, it was like the weight she had carried all day began to wash away.
Soft hums escaped her lips as the steam wrapped around her like a blanket. For a brief moment, she allowed herself to relax, eyes closed, body still. The pressure, the secrecy, the fear—it all melted into the sound of rushing water.
When she finally stepped out, droplets trickled down her skin and formed small puddles on the tile. She wrapped herself in a thick towel, the fabric absorbing every last trace of water like a silent promise of comfort. After slipping into her favorite soft nightwear—a light lavender set with tiny embroidered stars—she padded into the kitchen to make something simple for dinner.
A quick bowl of pasta, a bit of sauce, and a steaming mug of hot cocoa. It wasn't fancy, but it was warm, and for now, that was enough.
As she set her meal down on the table near the window, something tugged at her. A chill—not from the air, but from instinct. Slowly, Emily turned her head and looked through the glass. She wasn't surprised.
She had expected this.
Of course, someone would be watching her by now. They must have found the security footage. Things were moving faster than she'd anticipated, but it was fine. It just meant everything was going according to plan.
Her gaze lingered for only a second before she turned away and pretended not to notice the shadow lingering across the street. She didn't flinch. Didn't panic. She sat down, took a sip of her cocoa, and quietly began to eat, her expression unreadable.
When she was done, she washed the dishes, wiped the counter, and moved through the house like it was any other night. But as she shut off the lights and slipped into bed, her thoughts drifted to a place far away—back to faces she hadn't seen in a long time.
Lying on her side, she stared at the ceiling.
"Mom… Dad… Silvia…" she whispered, clenching her fist beneath the blanket. "I'm doing this for you."
A soft breath escaped her lips.
And then, silence.
She closed her eyes and let sleep take her.