Lila's POV
I stared at the document long after my screen dimmed.
Things You Should Know.
Ethan had uploaded it hours ago. No message. No explanation. Just that file — waiting.
Uncertainty had never been kind to me.
I read it again.
It wasn't dramatic. No scandals or confessions. Just facts. Corporate disputes, old grudges, people who blurred the line between business and vengeance.
If they think you matter to me, they might target you instead.
I closed the laptop and leaned back, pressing my fingers to my temples.
So this was the risk.
Not rivalry.
Not competition.
Being seen.
The next morning, I dressed deliberately.
Not to impress — to fortify.
My complexion was smooth and warm-toned, the kind that caught light softly rather than reflecting it sharply. I enhanced it with minimal makeup: a thin layer of foundation, subtle contour to define my cheekbones, a soft glow along my collarbones. My eyes — almond-shaped and dark honey-brown — were lined lightly, lashes lengthened just enough to frame them without softness.
Control was always in the details.
My lips carried a muted rose color, natural but intentional.
My hair fell to the middle of my back when loose — thick, dark, and heavy with natural waves — but today I twisted it into a low knot, exposing the graceful line of my neck. It made me look composed. Untouchable.
The mirror reflected what the world usually saw.
Lila Hartman.
Tall. Slim but structured. A body shaped by posture rather than indulgence. Long legs, narrow waist, shoulders that held themselves as if they'd learned early how to bear expectation.
But mirrors never showed the weight.
I arrived at the office early.
Again.
Ethan was already there.
He looked up immediately this time.
"You read it," he said.
"Yes."
"I should've explained in person."
"You warned me," I replied, setting my bag down. "That matters."
"That wasn't the point."
I met his gaze. "Then what was?"
He hesitated — and that alone unsettled me.
"I didn't want you thinking this partnership was harmless," he said. "Or that I hadn't considered the consequences."
Responsibility sat heavy in his words.
I folded my arms, the blazer pulling slightly at my shoulders. "You think I'd walk away because I'm afraid?"
"No," he said quickly. "I think you'd walk away because you're intelligent."
That cut deeper than expected.
"I don't run," I said quietly. "I calculate."
His eyes lingered on me — not my face, not my body, but the space between certainty and restraint.
"Then calculate carefully," he replied.
"I don't need permission to take risks," I said.
"I know," he answered. "That's why I told you."
The silence that followed wasn't tense.
It was weighted.
We worked without much conversation.
At one point, I felt his attention — not invasive, just observant. Like he was registering details he'd never bothered to notice before.
"What?" I asked.
"You're different today," he said.
I lifted a brow. "Different how?"
"Less polished," he replied. "Or maybe more human."
I looked away.
"You don't know me well enough to say that."
"Maybe not," he said. "But I recognize someone who's holding herself together too carefully."
That nearly cracked something.
Instead, I straightened, smoothing my skirt. "Focus on the projections."
He did.
But something had shifted.
Later, I stood by the window, city stretching endlessly below us.
Ethan joined me, stopping at a respectful distance.
"You always stand like that," he said.
"Like what?"
"As if you command the room without needing to raise your voice."
I scoffed softly. "You're imagining things."
"I don't think so."
I turned toward him.
Up close, I was aware of myself — not self-conscious, but conscious. The way people often studied me. The way my presence filled space quietly, confidently. The way my stillness made others speak more carefully.
"My life has never been simple," I said. "Wealth doesn't soften pressure. It sharpens it."
He nodded. "I know."
"Do you?" I asked. "Or do you think you do?"
"I think," he said slowly, "being watched your entire life teaches you how to perform."
My throat tightened.
"That's not weakness," he added. "That's survival."
I didn't trust my voice.
As we packed up, he paused near the door.
"Lila."
"Yes?"
"If this gets worse," he said, "don't face it alone."
I studied him — really studied him.
"I don't make promises lightly."
"I know."
"I'll inform you," I said. "Not depend. Just… inform."
A compromise.
He accepted it.
That night, I loosened my hair and let it fall freely around my shoulders. The waves softened my reflection, made me look like someone less armored.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown Number:You wear confidence well.
Another message followed.
But even queens have pressure points.
I locked the screen, pulse racing.
For the first time, I wondered — not whether Ethan Blackwood was dangerous…
…but whether he was already seeing parts of me no one else ever had.