Patience had never been Alexander Drake's virtue.
Patience was for the powerless—for people who waited for opportunity instead of seizing it. He had built an empire on speed, precision, and anticipation. But now, time moved like treacle, stretching into a slow, unbearable crawl.
He couldn't stop thinking about her.
The two words I know had dug their way into his thoughts, an echo that repeated with every tick of the clock. He heard them while shaving, while reading reports, while pretending to listen in meetings. They had become the background noise of his existence, as constant as his own heartbeat.
He returned to the office at night under the pretense of work, though the lie fooled no one—least of all himself. His empire no longer called to him. Only she did.
At ten p.m., the ritual began. The hum of the floor polisher. The faint scent of lemon and bleach. The rhythm of her movements—measured, unhurried, methodical.
He sat behind his desk, watching the doorway like an addict waiting for a fix. She never looked at him. She moved through the office as if he didn't exist, a quiet shadow in his world of glass and steel. But he felt her presence like static, charged and alive.
The obsession was no longer curiosity—it was hunger.
It consumed him, hollowing out his other priorities. His divorce paperwork lay unsigned. Memos went unread. The media storm around Vivienne's public attacks no longer mattered. His board meetings had become theater, words passing around him while his mind wandered to green eyes and quiet footsteps.
He'd always thought power was the ultimate high—control, influence, the ability to bend outcomes to his will. But now, control eluded him.
And he was addicted to the feeling.
The phone rang on the third night. The sound sliced through the quiet like a blade.
He grabbed it before the second ring. "Isaac?"
The voice that came through was gravelly, wary. "You sound like you haven't slept in days."
"I haven't," Alexander said. "What did you find?"
A pause. Papers shuffled on the other end. "You sure you want to know?"
"Tell me."
"She's clean," Isaac said finally. "Too clean."
Alexander frowned. "Meaning?"
"Meaning she doesn't exist—not in any way that makes sense. No social media, no government records before she was eighteen. Her name's Elena Petrova. Thirty-one. Orphaned in Siberia. Moved here at eighteen. Nothing since. She works under-the-table jobs—waitress, librarian, cleaner. Always brief. Always quiet. Then she disappears and reappears somewhere else."
"That's not possible," Alexander said sharply. "Everyone leaves a trace."
"Not this one. She's a ghost. I've seen operatives with thicker files than this. She's hiding, Alex. From something—or someone."
Alexander's grip on the phone tightened. "Family? Friends?"
"None that we can verify. No marriage record, no known associates. Her past's been scrubbed. If she were a criminal, there'd be whispers. If she were a spy, I'd have heard. But she's… invisible."
He leaned back in his chair, staring at the city lights. "So she's nothing."
Isaac's tone darkened. "Or she's everything you should be afraid of."
Alexander frowned. "You sound paranoid."
"I sound experienced," Isaac countered. "Listen to me. You're chasing someone who doesn't want to be found. That's not mystery—that's intent. A woman like that hides for a reason. And if you're not careful, she'll make you the reason."
"I need to know," Alexander said quietly.
"Why?"
"Because she saw me."
Isaac sighed on the other end, a sound halfway between pity and frustration. "You've spent your whole life building walls, Alex. Maybe she didn't see through you. Maybe she just walked past the gate you forgot to lock."
"You don't understand," Alexander said. His voice was low, dangerous. "When she looked at me, I felt—"
"What?"
"Real."
Isaac went silent for a moment. "Then you're already in trouble."
"I can handle it."
"No," Isaac said softly. "You think you can control it. There's a difference. And this woman—Elena—she's not a prize. She's a weapon. Don't mistake her quiet for innocence. The ones who don't speak are the ones who already know the ending."
Alexander didn't answer.
"Alex," Isaac added, voice low. "Walk away."
But he'd already hung up.
He looked at the clock. Ten-fifteen.
And then he heard it—the cart's wheels whispering down the hall. The sound sent a thrill through him, sharp as adrenaline.
He stepped into the doorway, his pulse quickening. She was there, moving through the corridor, a silhouette of deliberate grace. Her uniform caught the dim light, soft gray against the shadowed walls. Her hair was pulled back tonight, severe, but a loose strand brushed her cheek.
"Elena," he said before he could stop himself.
She froze. Just for a second. Then she turned her head, her gaze meeting his.
The moment stretched. Her eyes were calm, unreadable, but something flickered beneath the surface—a calculation, perhaps.
"Mr. Drake," she said evenly. "You shouldn't be here this late."
He stepped closer. "Neither should you."
"I belong here," she said. "You don't."
Her tone was quiet, but the words landed like a command.
He smiled faintly. "I own this building."
"Then you should know how to leave it."
He laughed under his breath. "Do you ever stop being direct?"
"Do you ever stop watching?" she replied.
He faltered. "How do you know I'm watching?"
"Because you're not good at hiding it."
Her eyes met his again—green and deep and utterly unflinching. For a heartbeat, he forgot how to breathe.
"I had someone look into you," he said finally. "You have no past."
Her expression didn't change. "Everyone has a past. Not everyone keeps it."
"Why hide it?"
"Why dig for it?"
"I need to understand."
"No," she said softly. "You need control."
He swallowed. "You think you know me?"
"I don't think," she said. "I see."
The silence that followed was electric.
She stepped past him, her shoulder brushing his arm—a fleeting contact that felt deliberate. "You should be careful, Mr. Drake," she murmured. "Some people don't like being found."
And then she was gone again, her cart rolling away, the sound fading down the hall.
In the reflection of the glass, Elena saw him watching her long after she left.
He didn't know that she already knew everything she needed to about him. The insomnia. The late-night habits. The restless craving for something real. She had watched him long before he ever noticed her.
And she knew that every step he took toward her only drew him deeper into the labyrinth she'd been building around him.
She smiled faintly, the kind of smile that meant nothing and everything.
Let him follow the trail, she thought. The only thing he'll find at the end is himself.
Back in his office, Alexander sank into his chair. His pulse still raced, his mind replaying every word, every glance.
He had confronted her, and somehow, she had still been in control.
He rubbed a hand over his face, staring at his reflection in the window. He looked older, sharper, almost hollow.
"Weapon," Isaac had said.
He didn't believe it. Not yet. But as he looked at the empty hallway beyond his office door, he couldn't shake the feeling that the hunter had just become the prey.
And the cleaner's gaze—the calm, knowing eyes that had stripped him bare—was now the one haunting him.
The game wasn't over. It had only just begun.