ELIJAH'S POV
I sat in my office, the late afternoon shadows crawling across the oak desk. My fingers drummed against the polished surface—once, twice—then fell silent. The boardroom scene replayed in my mind: Imogen's tailored black skirt suit, the slight tilt of her chin, how the light caught in her dark eyes as she systematically dismantled my proposal point by point.
The memory of her voice scraped against my nerves. Controlled. Precise. Musical in its deliberate cadence. Like watching a virtuoso perform.
The quarterly reports blurred before me. I blinked, tried to focus on the numbers that normally anchored me. Failed. The silent accusations from the stakeholders' faces faded compared to hers—that barely perceptible smile at the corner of her mouth when she knew she'd cornered me.
Back from the grave, and still perfectly capable of making me feel like I was suffocating.
My jaw clenched until it ached.
