Aftermath
The absence of an agreement is louder than its presence.
Blackwood Tower no longer feels like a battlefield or a cage when I walk out—it feels unfinished, like a sentence cut off before the period. I half expect Elliot to call me back, to add conditions, to reclaim ground.
He doesn't.
Which unsettles me more than if he had.
My first day at Crestline is chaotic in the best way.
The office is smaller, brighter, noisier. People talk over each other, laugh too loudly, argue about fonts and deadlines. No hushed power plays. No glass walls.
No Elliot.
I throw myself into the work, grateful for something solid to focus on. By noon, my head is buzzing and my coffee's gone cold.
"Surviving?" Maya asks, leaning against my desk.
"Barely," I admit. "But in a good way."
She smiles. "You're going to do well here."
I believe her.
And then my phone buzzes.
Elliot Blackwood.
Just my name on the screen. No title. No warning.
I stare at it until it stops buzzing.
He doesn't try again.
The next few days fall into a strange rhythm.
I don't see him. I don't hear from him. But his presence lingers—in the pause before I speak in meetings, in the way I instinctively scan rooms, in the questions I don't realize I'm still asking myself.
At night, it's worse.
I dream of his voice—low, controlled, unraveling just enough to haunt me when I wake up.
By Friday, I'm exhausted.
That's when Crestline lands the pitch.
A joint presentation.
With Blackwood Industries.
I read the email twice.
Then a third time.
My chest tightens, anticipation and dread colliding.
Maya claps her hands. "This is big. They specifically requested you."
I look up slowly. "They did?"
She nods. "Said you already understand their brand language."
Of course he did.
The conference room is neutral territory.
Glass, steel, distance built into the architecture. Elliot sits at the far end of the table, composed as ever. When his eyes meet mine, something flickers—recognition, restraint, relief.
Nothing else.
We work.
Professionally. Efficiently. Carefully.
No one else would notice the way our silences stretch too long, or how every exchanged glance carries weight.
When the meeting ends, the room empties quickly.
Elliot doesn't move.
Neither do I.
Finally, he speaks. "You're good at what you do."
"Don't sound surprised."
A faint smile ghosts his mouth. Gone as quickly as it appears.
"This was your choice," he says. "I won't interfere."
"I didn't ask you to."
"I know."
Silence.
Then: "Are you happy?"
The question catches me off guard.
"I'm… steadier," I say honestly. "You?"
He exhales. "Less organized."
I meet his gaze. "Is that bad?"
He considers it. "Not necessarily."
We stand there, suspended between past and possibility.
No deal. No obligation.
Just two people who already know too much about each other.
"I should go," I say.
"Yes," he agrees. "You should."
Neither of us moves.
Not yet.