Chapter 3 Ghosts in Glass Towers

Tuesday morning came with a biting chill that had no business existing in early October. Noah arrived ten minutes early-again-and this time with an iced coffee, because he was a New Yorker and logic didn't apply when it came to caffeine.

He stepped into the executive floor and was greeted not by the receptionist, but by silence. No one was at the front desk. The office was dim, the blinds still drawn. Only one light was on-the one in Ethan Voss's office.

Of course.

Noah approached the door and paused. It was slightly ajar, and Ethan's voice filtered through in low, measured tones. A phone call.

"I don't care what he said in the press-he knew exactly what the projections were. We're not taking the hit for his incompetence."

Silence.

"No. We settle at six. Take it or we walk."

Another pause. Ethan exhaled sharply. "Then let him walk. I built this without him. I don't owe him a damn thing."

Click.

Noah stepped back just as the door opened. Ethan stood in the frame, freshly shaven, navy tie perfectly knotted, and jaw tight.

"You're early again," he said.

"You're already yelling at people," Noah replied. "Guess we're both creatures of habit."

Ethan didn't smile, but something in his expression softened. Just a hair.

"Prep the boardroom. They'll arrive at nine. Coffee, water, agendas. I want the deck on the main screen five minutes before they enter."

"On it," Noah said, grateful for something to do.

Over the next hour, he moved through the floor like he'd worked there for months. He set up the room, printed the reports, even remembered that the CFO hated sparkling water and made sure there was still bottled instead. When the board members started trickling in-men and women in tailored suits, expensive watches, and even more expensive egos-Noah stood quietly in the corner, observing.

Ethan entered last.

All conversation stopped when he did. The man had gravity. Presence. And control.

The meeting began. Charts. Forecasts. Projections. Ethan moved through the slides with surgical precision, explaining numbers with authority and fielding questions like a fencer parrying attacks.

Noah scribbled notes furiously, catching every shift in tone, every glance exchanged between members. There was a tension under the surface-especially when one silver-haired board member asked, "And what exactly happened with Mason Keats?"

Noah saw it then. The flicker in Ethan's eyes. The stillness.

"We had a difference in vision," Ethan said smoothly. "He chose to pursue other opportunities. We're moving forward."

The board moved on. But Noah didn't. He couldn't. That name-Mason Keats-it rang a bell. He couldn't place it, but it clearly meant something to Ethan.

After the meeting, Noah lingered as the others filed out. Ethan stayed seated, eyes on the now-empty screen, hands folded like he was holding something in.

"That went well," Noah offered.

Ethan didn't reply.

So Noah tried again. "You want me to schedule a debrief with Jensen and Marin?"

Ethan finally looked up. "No. I'll handle them later."

Noah nodded but didn't move. "Who's Mason Keats?"

The room went quiet.

Ethan stood slowly. "Not your concern."

"Okay," Noah said carefully. "Sorry. Just... you looked-"

"Don't finish that sentence."

Noah's mouth closed. Something cold pressed into the space between them. It wasn't anger exactly. It was distance. That same controlled, calculated wall Ethan always threw up like armor.

But for the first time, Noah could see the crack in it.

"I didn't mean to pry," he said quietly. "Just trying to understand how to help you better."

Ethan studied him for a long beat. "You want to help? Then don't ask questions about things that don't concern you."

And just like that, the wall was back.

"Understood," Noah said, stepping out of the room.

He returned to his desk, his stomach tight. Ethan wasn't just cold-he was haunted. Noah knew the signs. He'd seen them in his sister, in himself, after their parents' accident. That hollow look of someone trying to pretend they hadn't bled out inside.

Still, the day moved on. A crisis in marketing. A software bug in their newest beta. A missed investor call that Noah salvaged with a quick reschedule and an apology so smooth it made the VP blush.

By 7:30 p.m., the floor was empty again. Noah had one foot out the door when he heard a voice behind him.

"Mr. Reyes."

He turned. Ethan stood there, jacket off, sleeves rolled, leaning against the frame of his office. Tired, but not angry.

"You handled yourself well today."

Noah blinked. "Thanks. Coming from you, that might be a compliment."

"It was."

Noah smiled despite himself. "Well, thanks again."

A pause.

"I was engaged once," Ethan said suddenly.

Noah froze. "You... what?"

"Mason. The man from the meeting. We were together for six years."

Noah swallowed. "Oh."

"We built this company together. Then he tried to sell his share to an outside buyer behind my back."

"Shit."

"Exactly."

Ethan looked out the window. "So no-I don't do trust. I don't do emotions at work. And I certainly don't do second chances."

Noah stepped forward, keeping his voice low. "You don't have to. But if you ever need someone who's not trying to sell you out-or sleep with you-I'm literally across the room."

Ethan looked at him then, eyes unreadable.

"You're a strange assistant, Mr. Reyes."

"Better than being a predictable one."

And then, for the first time, Ethan Voss smiled.

Not big. Not for long. But real.

And Noah knew then: whatever this was between them, it was just getting started.