Morning meetings at Voss & Crane were mechanical — efficient, timed, and deliberately impersonal. Yet today, Leah felt every second stretch longer than it should.
Adrian stood at the head of the glass table, the city skyline bleeding pale light through the blinds behind him. His presence carried weight — not because he raised his voice, but because he didn't need to. Every sentence was crisp, his gaze steady, his silence between words sharper than reprimand.
Leah sat two seats down, taking notes, trying not to appear as if she noticed him more than she should.
He looked over once — brief, uncalculated — and then continued.
But even that glance made her pen stall.
"…We'll run the projections again before Thursday," he said, turning toward the screen. "Morgan, your department will handle the internal compliance data. I want your structure first before the team edits it."
"Yes, sir."
He nodded, his attention moving on. Yet, through the reflection in the glass wall, Leah caught something unusual: a slight tightening of his jaw whenever someone mentioned her report. Not irritation. Something quieter — as though he was gauging every reaction, every word said around her.
And the others noticed.
The whispered tones began small — two analysts near the back, a shared smirk, the kind that dies the moment a superior looks up. Still, Leah caught fragments.
"His favorite assistant.""She's always with him after hours.""Wonder what she's doing right."
She pretended not to hear. But the words lodged somewhere deep, sharp and weightless all at once.
After the meeting, she gathered her notes quickly, avoiding eye contact. Adrian dismissed the room with a single nod, then stopped when he saw her slipping out.
"Morgan," he said. "Walk with me."
Her pulse quickened. "Yes, sir."
They crossed the hall toward his office, steps echoing in sync. Once inside, he gestured for her to sit. The blinds were half-drawn, streaks of sunlight cutting across the polished floor.
"Your data set for the audit was solid," he said, seating himself opposite her. "But next time—try separating vendor and client anomalies. It'll make your trend summary cleaner."
She nodded. "Understood."
He hesitated, then added quietly, "You've been hearing things."
Leah froze. "I—"
"Don't," he said softly, not a command but a warning. "Rumors fade faster when ignored."
"I wasn't—"
"You were," he interrupted gently. "And you shouldn't have to be."
The words caught her off guard. His tone was calm, but the undercurrent wasn't professional. It was protective — the kind that didn't fit easily into hierarchy.
"Sir," she said, forcing steadiness, "I can handle it."
"I know you can." He leaned back slightly, studying her, his expression unreadable. "But you shouldn't have to prove that every time someone speaks your name."
The silence that followed was almost intimate — not through words, but through the way neither of them moved, as though anything spoken next might cross a line.
Then Adrian stood. "You've done well this week. Don't let noise get in your head."
She rose, clutching her folder to her chest. "Thank you."
"Leah."
It was the first time he'd said her name aloud since hiring her. The sound of it — simple, precise — broke through her composure for half a breath.
"Yes?"
His gaze flicked briefly to the window. "Sometimes silence speaks louder than defense. Use it."
She nodded once, leaving before the air between them could thicken again.
Back at her desk, the hum of conversation resumed, screens lighting up, keyboards clicking. But she could still feel the trace of his voice — the rare warmth that had slipped past his restraint.
When she glanced up an hour later, through the glass partition, Adrian was at his desk, typing, face expressionless. Yet his eyes lifted once, meeting hers through reflection.
Only a second. Barely noticeable.
But enough to remind her that silence could, indeed, speak.