The conference room slowly emptied, chairs scraping, footsteps echoing in the hallway.
Elias remained seated at the head of the table, fingers steepled under his chin, eyes fixed — not on the spreadsheets, not on the graphs — but on the one figure who hadn't looked his way once during the entire meeting.
Leila.
She had sat quietly through it all — poised, attentive, professional. So unbothered it stung. She didn't fidget. Didn't hesitate. Not once did she raise her gaze to meet his. Not even accidentally.
It was a performance. One he could see straight through.
Because the Leila he knew — or thought he knew — would have at least met his eyes when he spoke. Would have offered something. Even if it was just her usual quiet warmth. But now?
She didn't even glance.
And that silence was louder than anything she'd ever said.
When the last person left the room, Elias stood. His movements were slow, deliberate. Leila gathered her files neatly, not in a rush — but clearly intending to leave.
"Leila."
His voice stopped her. Calm, deep, but with a weight that hung between them.
She didn't turn immediately. Then she did — slowly, cautiously — arms still folded over her tablet like a shield.
"Yes, Mr. Sinclair?"
The title was a slap.
His jaw tightened slightly. "Can we talk?"
She hesitated. Then gave a small nod. "Of course."
He stepped closer. Not too close. Just enough that they were speaking in private tones, away from the glass doors.
"You've been… different lately," he said carefully. "I notice things. Even when you think I don't."
Leila's fingers clenched a little around the edge of her folder. She didn't deny it.
"I just wanted to ask," he continued, voice lower now, "why?"
She looked at him then. For the first time in days. Her gaze steady. Her expression unreadable.
"There's nothing to explain," she said softly. "We were never close to begin with that I have to distance myself."
It was clean. Precise. And it hit him like a direct shot to the ribs.
His expression faltered for just a moment — a flicker, but deep. His eyes didn't harden. They didn't flash. They just… dulled. Like something inside him quietly fractured.
Leila saw it.
And instantly regretted her words.
Her breath caught for a second. Her gaze dropped, her voice softer now. "I didn't mean that to sound cruel."
"You didn't," he replied, but his voice was hoarser now. "It just surprised me. That's all."
She couldn't look at him again.
She hadn't meant to hurt him. She was just trying to protect them both from something she didn't know how to name.
"I'm just trying to keep things uncomplicated," she murmured. "Nothing more."
Elias swallowed hard, jaw working slightly.
He didn't say it out loud, but he felt it — if things kept going this way, he was going to lose her.
Not because they ever had something concrete.
But because something could've been there.
And she was cutting it at the root before it even had a chance to bloom.
"Leila," he said quietly, his voice almost strained now, "if I… if I've done something wrong—"
"You haven't," she said immediately, looking up again. "You've been… kind. More
than I ever expected."
Then why?
Her words told him nothing. But her eyes — they flickered with something deeper.
Fear. Guilt. Distance. Sadness.
Elias exhaled, stepping back slightly. He gave her the space she clearly needed.
But this wasn't over. Not for him.
"Thank you for your time," she said gently, then turned to leave.
He stood still as her figure disappeared down the hallway.
And all he could think was:
If I don't say something soon…
I'm going to lose her forever.
The glass door clicked shut behind her.
Elias didn't move for a long time. His eyes were fixed on the reflection in the polished table — a distorted outline of himself, sitting there like a man who'd just been handed a verdict.
He replayed her words, each one deliberate, sharp in their simplicity:
We were never close to begin with…
If she had shouted at him, it might've been easier to dismiss. If she had cried, he might've known how to comfort her. But this—this measured distance—was worse. It was her way of saying you don't matter enough to fight with.
His jaw flexed. The room felt smaller.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing the bridge of his nose, and for a moment he considered letting it be. Letting her walk away. After all, she was right — by definition, they weren't close.
But the thought of her becoming just another background figure in his life… someone he'd pass in the halls with polite nods…
No. That wasn't something he could stomach.
Kai's voice from earlier in the week floated back to him: "You're restless, Elias. Either you tell her or you watch her disappear."
Restless was an understatement.
Elias rose, buttoning his jacket in one clean motion. The decision was already forming before he fully admitted it to himself — he wasn't going to corner her again with half-questions and hesitant glances. If she was shutting him out because of something she'd heard, or assumed, or feared… he needed to know.
And he needed to make her see that she couldn't just erase him from her story as easily as she thought.
He walked to his office, mind already working. There were ways to reach her that didn't break professional boundaries — invitations under the guise of work, situations where conversation could happen naturally. He'd done it before. But this time, it wasn't about subtle maneuvers.
It was about telling her — plainly, directly — that she mattered.
The next move had to count.
Because he could feel it now, in a way that unsettled him:
He was running out of time.