The storm broke not with thunder, but with headlines.
By morning, the city was already humming with it—billboards flashing the same frozen image in rotation. Freya, hair bright as flame, lips crushed to Orion's, her jacket sliding from her shoulder as she straddled him in a rooftop booth. His hand steady at her waist. The caption screamed across glass and steel:
"STORM & FIRE — KISS UNDER CITY LIGHTS!"
Inside Ather Tower's lobby, staff gathered in eddies, phones cupped in palms, whispers running faster than the elevators. Snatches of disbelief tangled with envy, with awe.
"Is that really him?"
"Looks like her—who else kisses like that in public?"
"She doesn't even care the cameras were there."
"Bold move. Dangerous."
The elevator chimed. Conversations scattered, but eyes didn't.
Orion stepped out first, dark suit cutting clean lines, silver gaze unreadable. If the headlines rattled him, not a thread of his composure admitted it. He walked through the lobby as if the building didn't breathe gossip around him. Calm. Precise. A storm in control of its own weather.
Behind him came Freya.
Black sunglasses at nine in the morning. Coffee in one hand, phone in the other. Her smile wide enough to slice through tension, bright enough to steal attention from the digital scandal flashing just beyond the glass. She didn't shrink from the billboards; she tilted her head slightly as though posing for them again.
"Morning," she said to no one and everyone, the word stretched in honeyed amusement. Heels clacked once, twice, then the echo carried.
A cluster of interns ducked their heads, cheeks pink, but their eyes betrayed the thrill. Someone's phone slipped from their fingers with a dull slap against marble. Nobody laughed.
Orion didn't slow for any of it. His stride was measured, not fast, not hesitant. A faint flick of his gaze toward Freya was the only acknowledgment between them, and even that was unreadable.
She met it with a grin, brushing her thumb against the corner of her mouth as though she could still taste the night.
The staff parted. Silence spilled in their wake, sharp and breathless.
By the time the elevator closed on the two of them, whispers had already surged back, louder than before.
"Do you think Lunox saw?"
"She must have."
"What's she going to do about it?"
The lobby screens kept looping the kiss. Storm and fire, sealed in neon.
And somewhere above, in the top floor office lined with glass, an Ice Queen was already breaking her pen.
The blinds were already half-open when Aurelia entered. Morning sun cut the office into shards of gold and shadow, catching the glass desk in sharp reflections.
Lunox sat behind it, posture flawless as ever. White silk blouse buttoned to the throat, navy skirt sharp enough to wound, hair pulled into a knot so tight it might have been armor. A pen glided across a document with surgical precision.
If not for the faint smudge of ink on her palm, one might believe nothing existed outside these four walls.
"Reports, Ms. Ather," Aurelia said softly, setting a folder at the edge of the desk. She hesitated a beat before adding, "And… the news."
Lunox didn't look up. "Summarize."
Aurelia's tablet lit with a touch. The headline blared across the screen before she could soften it:
STORM & FIRE KISS UNDER CITY LIGHTS!
The photo filled the glass — Freya, reckless and golden, sitting bold on Orion's lap, mouth crushed to his, his hand steady at her waist. Neon lit their silhouettes like prophecy.
The pen in Lunox's hand paused. For half a second. Then continued, the stroke firmer, pressing into the page as though paper could bear the weight of her silence.
"Unsurprising," she said, voice level. "My sister's appetite for spectacle is legendary."
Aurelia didn't answer. She didn't need to. Her eyes lingered on the paper under Lunox's pen, where the ink had thickened into a blot.
Lunox signed her name, precise, then set the pen down too carefully. She leaned back in her chair, folding her hands. "Irrelevant. Personal lives do not concern this office."
The words rang crisp. Practiced.
But Aurelia saw it—the faint tremor in the fingers that reached for the folder. The way Lunox's nails pressed crescents into the paper.
"Of course," Aurelia murmured. She placed the tablet flat on the desk, screen still glowing with scandal, then stepped back.
Silence stretched.
Finally, Lunox touched the tablet, as if dismissing it. But her thumb lingered longer than it should have over the photo, tracing the outline of storm and fire locked together in a kiss the world already owned.
Her reflection in the glass screen stared back at her: perfect posture, flawless mask, eyes just a shade too dark.
The pen snapped. A clean, brittle sound.
Ink bled across her palm before she realized she'd gripped it too hard.
She dropped it onto the blotter, wiped her hand with a tissue, expression never shifting.
"Schedule Helios for two," she said, voice smooth as winter.
"Yes, Ms. Ather."
Aurelia turned, but not before catching the smallest betrayal in her boss's reflection—the barest flicker of hurt beneath the frost.
The Ice Queen hadn't melted. But the crack was there, visible if one dared to look closely enough.
The elevator doors slid open with a soft chime.
Lunox stepped out first, Aurelia at her side, heels striking marble in steady rhythm. The board meeting loomed two floors down, but she carried herself like a queen on parade—every line sharp, every detail flawless. White silk blouse, navy skirt, diamond pin at her collar. Armor stitched in fabric.
The lobby was busier than usual. Staff lingered longer than they should, heads bowed but ears open. The billboards outside still looped the kiss, each flash of neon splashing into the glass walls.
And then the second elevator opened.
Freya emerged like she owned the moment. Black sunglasses, jacket draped over one shoulder, coffee cup in hand. She laughed at something on her phone, golden hair catching the morning sun. The scandal looked even better in motion than in stills.
Orion followed. Dark suit pressed, tie absent, collar open. His stride unhurried, his gaze straight ahead. If he felt the weight of the entire building's curiosity pressing against him, he didn't show it.
The three collided at the center of the lobby.
For a heartbeat, silence fell. Even the security guard at the desk forgot to breathe.
Freya's smile curved, feline and wicked. She lifted her coffee in greeting. "Morning, sister."
Lunox's eyes flicked over her once, then to Orion. His silver gaze met hers for a fraction of a second—steady, unreadable. Something in her chest jolted, sharp and unwelcome. She turned it into ice.
"You're late," Lunox said flatly, though neither had asked.
"Fashionably," Freya corrected, slipping off her sunglasses and tucking them into her jacket. Her grin widened when she caught Aurelia stiffen at her tone. "Don't tell me you missed the news."
"I don't read tabloids." Lunox's voice was cool, practiced. She shifted her files higher in her arms, as if to prove her priorities.
Freya tilted her head, golden eyes glinting. "Funny. They're reading you." She nodded at the staff trying and failing to look busy. "Every stare in this room wants to know if the Ice Queen burns."
The words sliced clean, but Lunox didn't flinch. She only angled her chin higher, diamond pin catching the light. "I suggest they return to work before they find themselves replaced."
The staff scattered instantly, whispers dissolving into the hum of computers and phones. But the silence that clung to the center of the lobby was heavier than before.
Orion finally spoke. His tone was low, quiet, but it cut through. "We should head in. The board is waiting."
It was practical. Neutral. But his gaze lingered on Lunox one breath too long. Not pity, not apology—just stormlight, steady and impossible to ignore.
Her throat tightened. She walked past both of them without pause, heels echoing sharp against marble.
Aurelia followed quickly, though her eyes darted once back at Orion, then at Freya still standing like the center of gravity.
Behind them, Freya sipped her coffee, smirk tugging wider. She leaned toward Orion, murmuring just loud enough for the departing staff to hear.
"Cold, isn't she?"
Orion didn't answer. He didn't need to. The faint curve of his mouth was enough—mysterious, unreadable, dangerous.
And Lunox, striding ahead, heard none of it. But her reflection in the glass wall betrayed her—the smallest flicker in her eyes, a heat she refused to name.
The executive washroom smelled faintly of orchids and polished marble.
Lunox stood at the mirror, hands braced on the sink, breath steady but too sharp for calm. The cold water she'd just splashed clung to her skin, dripping down her wrists, leaving wet circles on the silk cuffs of her blouse. She dabbed them dry with a tissue, precise, methodical.
Her reflection was flawless. Hair slicked back, eyeliner sharp, lips painted the same shade of command she wore in every boardroom. Only her eyes betrayed the unrest—the faint shadows beneath, the flicker that refused to die.
The door creaked open.
Aurelia stepped in quietly, navy suit still crisp despite the long morning, tablet tucked under her arm. She paused a beat, as though gauging the temperature of the room before approaching.
"Meeting begins in ten," Aurelia said softly.
Lunox nodded once, reaching for her compact. She touched powder to her cheekbones, though the perfection needed no correction. "I'm ready."
Her PA lingered. "The lobby was… intense."
"Gossip always is." Lunox snapped the compact shut. The click was sharp enough to echo. "It dies fast."
Aurelia hesitated, then set her tablet on the counter. Headlines glared faintly on the lock screen—Freya, golden, alive, tangled with Orion. She angled it away before Lunox could see, but too late.
The Ice Queen's jaw tightened.
"Say it," Lunox murmured, voice low, eyes locked on her own reflection.
Aurelia exhaled. "You don't have to pretend with me."
The tissue in Lunox's hand stilled. For a moment, her mask threatened to fracture. Then she laughed, the sound brittle, controlled.
"Pretend what, Aurelia? That my sister makes a scene? That a man with half a résumé and a stormy stare happens to be in the picture? Irrelevant."
"You snapped another pen," Aurelia said softly.
Silence spread like water across marble.
Lunox looked up sharply, eyes narrowing at her reflection instead of her PA. "Pens are replaceable."
"So are people." Aurelia's voice was quiet, but it landed heavy.
Lunox's breath caught—just for a fraction, just enough. She straightened her blouse, squared her shoulders, pulled her armor tighter.
"Not me," she said, colder now. "Not here."
Her gaze locked on the mirror, daring her reflection to argue. The woman staring back was perfect, unbroken, untouchable. Only the wet tissue crumpled in her hand betrayed the truth.
Aurelia closed her tablet gently, as if not to disturb the fragile stillness. "Understood."
The door clicked softly behind her.
Lunox stayed, staring at herself in the mirror long after she was alone, until the silence pressed too hard. Her lips parted, words never spoken caught in her throat.
Irrelevant.
But the mirror saw otherwise.
By the time the sun began to fall, the tower was quiet again.
Lunox stood at the window, the skyline burning orange, glass towers reflecting the last of the day like molten steel. Her heels were off, abandoned beside her desk. Stocking feet pressed into the carpet, grounding her even as her spine stayed stiff, posture immaculate.
Her office hummed with silence. No Aurelia, no boardroom noise, only the faint ping of notifications rolling across her desk tablet.
She ignored the first few. Then one broke through.
"FIRE & STORM HEAT UP ATHER TOWER—IS THE ICE QUEEN LEFT OUT?"
The photo glared up at her, cruel in its perfection: Freya leaning across Orion in the lobby earlier, sunglasses tipped low, his gaze steady as ever, staff whispering in the background. The angle framed them like co-conspirators. The caption's sting wasn't subtle.
Her fingers brushed the screen. She swiped it away, too fast. Another headline replaced it instantly.
"Lunox Ather Silent Amid Sister's Scandal—Cold or Cracking?"
Her hand trembled before she caught it. She set the tablet down flat, harder than necessary, and turned back to the window.
Irrelevant.
The word clanged in her skull, dull and desperate.
Yet the reflection betrayed her. Wide eyes, lips pressed thin, shoulders taut. The woman in the glass didn't look untouchable; she looked cornered. Burning, though she refused to admit it.
"Why does it sting?" she whispered, voice breaking into the empty office.
The city offered no answer. Only lights flickering to life, one by one, like eyes opening. Watching.
Behind her, the tablet chimed again—new gossip, fresh photos, more speculation. Freya laughing into Orion's ear at the rooftop, his profile steady against neon.
Lunox shut her eyes. For the first time all day, she let her hand rest against the glass, forehead following, cool surface against fevered skin.
If he's only fire, why do I feel the burn?
The question seared louder than the headlines.
And somewhere in the tower below, Freya was still laughing, Orion still unreadable, the world still watching.
The triangle had found its edges.
And the Ice Queen, for all her frost, could feel the scorch.