Chapter 2
The next morning, the office smelled of coffee and rain.
People walked briskly through the glass corridors of Cole Industries, the sound of heels, voices, and printers blending into a hum I usually found comforting. Today, it grated against my skin.
My reflection in the elevator door looked foreign, tired, sharp-edged, restless.
I hadn't slept. Not even a second.
Every time I closed my eyes, I saw her face, Clarissa Hart, and heard her voice whispering, "Don't tell anyone."
But now, it wasn't her face anymore.
It was Lena's.
Her eyes. Her smile. The same last name.
My employee.
Her daughter.
The elevator dinged. The 45th floor. My floor.
I stepped out, the usual greetings echoing faintly, "Good morning, Mr. Cole," "Morning, sir."
I replied with nods, nothing more.
I didn't trust my voice not to crack.
When I entered my office, the first thing I saw was a neat folder on my desk.
The label read: "Revised Design, Miami Waterfront Project."
Her handwriting.
She must've stayed late last night.
For a second, I just stared at it, my chest tightening. Then I flipped it open.
It was perfect.
Clean. Balanced. Confident.
The same confidence I used to have, before she took it from me.
I should've felt satisfaction. Instead, I felt anger.
Why did it have to be her? Why did she have to walk into my life, into my company, with that same name and that same smile?
A knock on my door pulled me out of it.
"Come in."
The door opened slowly, and there she was, Lena Hart, hair pulled back neatly, eyes unsure but brave.
"Sir," she began, voice soft. "I—I wanted to apologize for yesterday. I didn't mean to.."
"Save it," I cut her off, standing from my chair. "If you want to make up for your mistakes, then stop wasting my time with apologies and do better work."
Her lips parted, but she didn't argue. Instead, she nodded. "Yes, Mr. Cole."
I looked at her, really looked. The way her fingers fidgeted, how she tried to meet my gaze but couldn't hold it. There was something painfully familiar about that too.
"Next time," I said, my tone lowering, "don't hand me anything half-done. I don't tolerate incompetence in this office."
"Yes, sir."
I turned my gaze back to the window, trying to end the conversation.
But she didn't leave.
"Sir," she said quietly after a moment. "I also… wanted to thank you for not firing me."
That made me look at her again.
Her eyes held something I wasn't ready for, sincerity. Gratitude.
I hated it.
Because it reminded me of that same helpless gratitude I used to show her.
"You're still here because you're useful," I said coldly. "Don't mistake professionalism for mercy."
Her shoulders stiffened, but she nodded again. "Understood."
"Now go."
She hesitated, then walked toward the door. But before she left, she paused.
"Mr. Cole?"
I didn't look up. "What."
"I just wanted to say… thank you for giving me another chance."
And she left.
Just like that, one line, one tone, and my walls cracked again.
I didn't move for a long time after she left.
The rain outside had stopped, but its ghost lingered in the damp Miami air.
I sat down, leaned back in my chair, and closed my eyes.
I could still see her mother.
The way she'd smile when she opened her door.
The way she'd say, "Come in, Ethan. I baked something for you."
I was twelve.
Too small to understand why my stomach twisted every time she smiled that way.
Her house was always dim. Curtains drawn.
She'd lock the door after I stepped in.
And then…
"Stop it," I muttered under my breath, gripping my hair.
Fifteen years, and still, her ghost owned me.
I built an empire, bought penthouses, stood on magazine covers, but in here, inside, I was still that twelve-year-old boy, frozen in that dark room.
And now, fate had thrown her daughter into my life.
Why? To test me? To break me?
I reached for my phone and called Lucas, my assistant.
"Sir?"
"Find out everything about Lena Hart," I said, voice steady but sharp. "Her education, her family, her address, everything."
There was a pause. "Of course, sir. Any specific reason?"
"Because I asked."
He didn't ask again.
I hung up.
That night, I didn't go home. I stayed in my office, working through drafts that didn't need fixing. My brain wouldn't stop.
At 11:47 p.m., Lucas texted.
Lucas: Sent everything to your email, sir.
I opened the file.
Lena Hart.
Age 24. Graduated top of her class. No criminal record. No family listed except:
Mother – Clarissa Hart, retired teacher. Currently lives in Vermont.
Vermont.
Far enough.
Far enough to still haunt me.
There was also a note,
Father – Unknown. No public record of marriage.
My jaw tightened.
Clarissa never mentioned a husband back then.
She'd said she was "alone" as if that excused everything she did.
But now her daughter stood in my company, smiling like she'd never known pain.
Innocent. Clean. Unaware that her mother had ruined someone else's life.
It made me hate her.
It made me want her.
And that contradiction burned worse than the memories.
The next morning, I arrived early. The office was still quiet, sun just beginning to light up the skyline.
I made coffee myself, something I hadn't done in years. I didn't even drink it. I just needed to do something with my hands.
Then she walked in.
"Mr. Cole? You're early."
Her tone was surprised but polite.
"So are you," I said without looking up.
"I wanted to get a head start," she said, setting down her bag near her desk outside my office. "After yesterday… I don't want to make the same mistake again."
"Good," I said shortly.
There was a pause, then she asked softly, "Do you always come in this early?"
I glanced at her. "Do I look like someone who sleeps well?"
Her eyes widened slightly, caught off guard by the honesty. "I… suppose not."
Something flickered between us then, a brief, unguarded silence. She looked like she wanted to ask more, but she didn't.
Instead, she smiled faintly. "For what it's worth, sir, I admire your work ethic."
I didn't answer. I couldn't. Because her smile, it wasn't Clarissa's. It was brighter. Younger. Genuine.
And yet… it still hurt.
Later that day, during a project briefing, I caught myself watching her.
The way she took notes, how she listened, how she defended her ideas when others interrupted.
There was steel under that soft voice.
Something about that unnerved me.
Because strength was exactly what Clarissa used to hide her cruelty.
After the meeting, I walked past her desk. She looked up, startled.
"Mr. Cole?"
"Your presentation," I said flatly. "Better."
Her eyes lit up just a little. "Thank you, sir."
I didn't smile.
I couldn't.
Because part of me wanted to destroy that smile before it could destroy me.
That night, I sat alone again.
Miami's skyline glowed beneath the clouds, neon bleeding into the ocean breeze.
I thought about her mother. The promises she made. The lies.
And I thought about Lena, how unaware she was, walking through the ruins her mother left behind.
I told myself I didn't care. That I could keep this professional.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
I was already falling.
And when I fell, I never landed gently.