The glass doors of Madden Corporation gleam like mirrors, reflecting a version of me that feels like a lie — calm, composed, ordinary. My palms are damp, my pulse uneven, my heart louder than my heels against the marble floor. I inhale once, twice, and tell myself this is just another interview. Just another job. Just another way to keep the twins' world steady.
But the building doesn't let me believe it. It hums with quiet power — the kind of silence that belongs to people who never have to rush. The kind of silence that reminds you exactly where you stand.
The receptionist greets me with a practiced smile, all polished composure and soft perfume. Her nameplate reads C. Rivera, and her posture is the kind that's learned — back straight, eyes attentive, tone perfectly measured.
"Good morning. Name, please?" she asks, her fingers already poised above the keyboard.
"Arisha Rossi," I manage, smoothing a nonexistent wrinkle on my sleeve. My voice sounds steady, even if my insides are anything but.
"Appointment time?"
"Ten o'clock."
She nods, her nails tapping efficiently on the desk. "You're right on time. Mr. Madden appreciates punctuality."
Her words catch on the air — Mr. Madden — and I feel something tighten in my chest. I force a small smile, pretending it's just nerves. "Good to know," I reply.
"Please, have a seat. He'll call you in shortly."
I thank her, moving toward the minimalist waiting area. Every surface here gleams — the glass tables, the chrome legs of the chairs, even the strategically placed plants that somehow look expensive. I lower myself into one of the sleek leather seats, careful not to wrinkle my trousers.
I'd chosen my outfit carefully this morning — armor disguised as style.
A rust-colored V-neck sweater layered over a crisp white collared shirt. The collar and cuffs peek neatly through, framing the warm brown tones. My high-waisted, wide-leg trousers — dark taupe, with a subtle two-tone stripe down the center — skim the floor just enough to show the pointed tips of my tan heels. My hair is pulled back into a low ponytail, neat but not severe, and my makeup is subtle — enough to hide exhaustion, not enough to draw attention.
Every choice deliberate. Every detail a shield.
Still, my reflection in the glass wall across from me doesn't lie. The calm exterior doesn't reach my eyes.
I glance around, noting the quiet rhythm of the office — the distant murmur of phones, the soft chime of elevators, the hum of something efficient and merciless. The kind of place where people don't make mistakes twice.
"Miss Rossi?"
I look up. The receptionist offers me another polite smile, though there's a faint curiosity behind it — as if she senses the shift in the air around me.
"Mr. Madden will see you now."
Her words land heavier than they should. My throat feels dry. I rise, smoothing my sweater, adjusting the strap of my bag. My legs remember how to move, though my pulse doesn't slow.
The hallway feels longer than it is — a corridor lined with glass-walled offices and expensive silence. My heels click in measured rhythm, each sound too loud, too final.
At the end of the hall, a door stands slightly ajar.
A low voice drifts through — controlled, calm, utterly familiar.
"Send the next candidate in."
My breath stops.
The receptionist gestures gently toward the door, oblivious to the chaos erupting beneath my skin.
I step forward before I can think.
The office is all shadow and light, sunlight spilling across black marble floors and glass walls that frame the skyline. And behind the desk — impossibly real, achingly alive — sits Adrian Madden.
Older. Sharper.
The boy who once made me laugh in empty hallways has become something else entirely — all steel and silence. His dark hair is shorter, his expression unreadable. The warmth that used to hide in his smile is gone, replaced by something colder… honed.
He doesn't look up immediately.
"Miss Rossi," he says, eyes on the papers in front of him. "You've been recommended highly."
My name in his voice — steady, professional, detached — hits harder than any memory.
The world tilts. My practiced composure fractures. Every word I'd rehearsed dissolves on my tongue.
"You're alive," I whisper.
He pauses, finally meeting my gaze. For one suspended heartbeat, something flickers in his eyes — recognition, disbelief — gone before it can breathe.
"Apparently," he says quietly, turning another page.
And just like that, seven years of silence collapse into the space between us.
The air in the room feels too thin. My heartbeat too loud.
I stand there — the woman who buried him, the man who forgot her — both of us pretending this is just another interview.
But the lie doesn't fit anymore.
.....