DALTON
Deadlines are cleaner than people.
They don't talk back. They don't expect warmth. They just demand results.
That's why I like them.
It was noon, and the office was quiet in the way a storm is before it breaks. Numbers crawled across my screen projections, acquisition reports, performance charts all begging for someone decisive enough to cut through the bullshit. That someone was me.
"Tell Martin to drop the supplier or I'll do it for him," I said flatly, eyes on the document. "If he can't negotiate basic delivery timelines, he shouldn't be handling multimillion-dollar accounts."
"Understood, sir," my assistant stammered from the doorway.
"And tell legal I want the contract draft on my desk before one. If it's not there, they can explain why they're still employed."
He nodded and vanished like smoke. Efficiency through fear people called it harsh, I called it productive.
By the time one rolled around, three meetings were done, one acquisition team was near tears, and I'd solved a logistics issue that my regional director had been "monitoring" for three months.
It wasn't genius. It was focus. The kind you earn when emotions stop being a distraction.
I leaned back, scanning the skyline through the tinted glass. The city moved slow, chaotic, indifferent. Somewhere in that mess, Aria Davis was probably pouring someone's coffee, pretending her world wasn't caving in.
I saw her every morning. The same quiet grace under exhaustion, the same fake smile that didn't reach her eyes. She thought she was hiding it well. She wasn't.
Still, she didn't complain. Didn't ask for help. Didn't even look at me the way people usually do when they realize who I am.
That intrigued me more than it should have.
My phone buzzed my mother's name flashing like a migraine warning.
I considered ignoring it. I didn't. Mistake number one.
"Dalton," her voice slid through the line, sweet and poisonous all at once. "You've been avoiding me."
"I've been working," I said.
"Working. Right. That thing you use as an excuse to stay emotionally unavailable."
"I'm not emotionally unavailable," I replied evenly. "I'm selectively interested."
She sighed dramatically. "You're thirty-two, dear, not a ghost. You can't hide in boardrooms forever. Have you even spoken to that lovely woman from the gala? The one with the—"
"I don't recall," I cut in. "And I'm not interested."
"You're never interested," she huffed. "One day you'll realize money and silence aren't the same as happiness."
I stared at the glowing city below. "Silence is happiness, Mother. You just never learned to appreciate it."
She laughed softly, the kind of laugh that meant she was done but not finished. "Fine, be a recluse. But don't expect me to plan your wedding when you finally decide to breed."
The call ended before I could respond not that I wanted to.
I set the phone down, exhaled slowly, and massaged the bridge of my nose. My mother's voice had a way of scraping against my patience like sandpaper.
At six, the office emptied, leaving only the low hum of lights and the soft ticking of the clock. I signed the last report, packed my laptop, and headed for the elevator.
Marcus was waiting by the car, as always, door already open, expression neutral but eyes too observant for my liking.
"Long day, sir?" he asked as I slid into the backseat.
"Every day is long."
He chuckled. "Fair enough."
Traffic was light, the city smeared in gold from the dying sun. I watched it without seeing it. My mind had already drifted elsewhere to a coffee shop that smelled like burnt beans and sugar, and the girl behind the counter who pretended not to notice me.
"How's Miss Davis?" I asked casually, as if I hadn't been thinking about her all day.
Marcus glanced in the rearview mirror, one brow lifting. "You mean Aria?"
I shot him a look. "You know who I mean."
He grinned. "She's... doing well. Well enough."
"Well enough," I repeated, tasting the phrase. "That doesn't sound convincing."
"She's eating," Marcus said quickly. "At least, she's been eating what you send. Though she gave me an earful about you treating her like a charity case."
I smirked faintly. "Did she, now?"
"Oh, yes," he chuckled. "She's got fire, that one. Funny, too. The other day "
"Marcus."
He cleared his throat. "Right. Sorry, sir."
I turned my gaze back to the window. "So she's fine, but not fine."
"That's one way to put it."
He hesitated, then added, "She did mention something, though. Asked if I knew of a cheap neighborhood she could move to. Apparently, the whole building got a notice. They're selling the place, and all the tenants have to leave."
My jaw tightened. "When?"
"She said two weeks. She's been looking for somewhere new, but it's rough out there."
I didn't respond immediately. I just let the information settle like a weight in my chest.
So that was it. The shadows under her eyes. The edge in her voice. She was unraveling again.
"She could've told me," I muttered.
Marcus gave a small, knowing smile. "Would she?"
No. She wouldn't. Aria Davis would rather starve than ask for help.
I leaned back, the leather seat creaking beneath me. "She's stubborn."
"She's proud," Marcus corrected gently. "There's a difference."
"Not when pride gets you evicted."
He didn't answer, and for a moment, the only sound was the hum of the engine.
"She should've just taken my offer," I said finally.
Marcus blinked. "The one about staying with you?"
"Yes. It would've made everyone's life easier."
"Except hers," he said softly.
That earned him a look, but he held it steady, loyal, quietly challenging. The way only someone who's seen you at your worst can be.
I sighed, looking away. "She'd rather fall than admit she needs a hand."
He nodded. "So what are you going to do?"
"Nothing."
Marcus actually looked surprised. "Nothing?"
"For now," I clarified. "She wants independence? Fine. Let her have it. Let her fail first."
"That's… cold, sir."
"Practical," I corrected. "She won't accept help until she realizes she can't do it alone. When that happens, I'll be there."
Marcus didn't argue. He just drove, quiet as the night stretched thin around us.
By the time we pulled into the driveway, the house lights were already on automated, sterile, perfectly timed. Everything in my life was scheduled except peace.
I went through the motions shower, change, pour a drink I didn't finish. The house was too big, too clean, too quiet.
I checked my phone out of habit. No messages. Not that I expected one. She didn't text, didn't call, didn't even thank me for the food.
Good. I didn't want gratitude. I wanted her stable. Breathing. Alive.
But the thought of her packing boxes in that worn-down apartment made something twist low in my chest.
I set the glass down, unfinished. Restlessness crawled under my skin, hot and sharp.
So I ran.
Traded the silence of the house for the rhythm of my feet hitting the pavement. The night air was cold, biting. The city blurred by in streaks of light and noise.
I ran until the ache in my chest had nothing to do with her and everything to do with oxygen. Until the pounding in my ears drowned out my thoughts.
But when I finally stopped bent over, hands on my knees, breath fogging the air her face was still there.
Tired eyes. Trembling smile. The stubborn tilt of her chin that said she'd rather burn than bend.
I hated that I understood it.
I'd built an empire on control, and yet one woman's quiet defiance had me pacing my own house like a fool.
I straightened, staring out at the skyline, all glitter and deceit.
"Have it your way, Aria," I muttered to the wind. "But don't expect me to just watch forever."
The city didn't answer. It never did.
I started running again.
Faster this time.
Because if I stopped, I might start to care too loudly.