Chapter 2 THE UNEXPECTED VISIT

"Some doors, once opened, don't close quietly."

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Monday mornings in the office had a particular kind of stillness-the type that settled in just before the hum of meetings, ringing phones, and bad coffee kicked the day into motion. I usually got in early, before the others, just to buy myself that silence. It made everything else feel manageable.

By 8:40, I was already deep into the revisions on the new pitch deck-slide twenty-three, projections for Q3 revenue growth, when the elevator pinged behind me.

I didn't look up right away. Everyone who mattered used the back entrance. This front one was mostly for visitors or delivery guys with too many lattes and not enough hands. But something about the quietness of the footsteps made me pause.

When I finally glanced up, I froze.

Lillian Hartman walked into the office like she was stepping onto a film set-elegant, self-contained, and just slightly out of sync with the room. Everything about her seemed carefully arranged: her navy coat, her high-neck silk blouse, the faint curve of lip gloss that wasn't quite a smile.

She looked around, clearly out of place, but entirely aware of it.

"Elijah," she said, voice soft and low. It landed on my name like a breeze-intentional, measured.

"Mrs. Hartman," I replied, standing a little too quickly. "I-uh-wasn't expecting..."

Her smile curved into something amused. "You don't have to call me that. It makes me sound like I run a boarding school."

"Lillian, then."

She nodded once. "I was nearby. Daniel left something in the car. I figured I'd bring it by. He's here?"

"Just stepped out," I said, gesturing toward the corner office. "Breakfast meeting. He should be back in twenty."

"Of course." She glanced toward the closed door, then back at me. "Mind if I wait?"

"Not at all," I said, motioning to the guest chair beside my desk. "Please."

She lowered herself into the seat like someone who wasn't sure how long she'd be welcome but was too tired to stand. The air felt different with her there-heavier and lighter all at once. She crossed one leg over the other, clasped her hands, and gave the room a slow once-over.

"Do you always get in this early?" she asked.

"Most days. It's the only time the place doesn't sound like a blender."

She smiled at that-a real one this time-and let her eyes linger on me. "That figures."

"What does?"

"You seem like someone who likes stillness. Like you need it to think."

I blinked. No one had ever said that to me before. Not even people who knew me well. And Lillian Hartman barely knew me at all.

"Well," I said, trying to play it cool, "I've never been great at multitasking."

She raised an eyebrow. "You work for my husband. Multitasking is practically a job requirement."

"Yeah, well," I said with a half-laugh, "I fake it well."

That earned a light chuckle. Her gaze drifted across my desk-sticky notes, neatly stacked folders, a half-finished coffee.

"He ever tell you how he used to be obsessed with coffee beans?" she asked.

I shook my head. "Can't say he has."

She leaned back, her expression softening. "Back when he was starting out, he'd grind his own every morning. Spent hours researching beans from Guatemala and Ethiopia. Said it was all about 'ritual and control.'" She smiled, but it didn't reach her eyes. "Now he drinks whatever's in the break room and doesn't taste any of it."

She wasn't talking about coffee. Not really.

I glanced at the elevator, then back to her. "Things change, I guess."

"They do," she said quietly. "Sometimes all at once. Sometimes so slowly, you don't even notice until it's already over."

There was a pause. I didn't know what to say, if I should say anything. I wasn't sure where the line was, only that I could feel it beneath my feet like cracking ice.

She cleared her throat lightly and looked at the framed photograph on my desk-a candid shot of my little sister from last Christmas, caught mid-laugh, snow in her hair.

"She looks like she makes your life brighter."

I nodded. "She does. She's my sanity."

"Must be nice," Lillian said, almost to herself. "To have someone who pulls you back to who you are."

I wanted to ask her if she had anyone like that. But I didn't. Not yet.

Instead, I said, "I think everyone needs at least one person who reminds them of who they are when the noise gets too loud."

She looked at me again. This time her gaze didn't slide away. It stayed there, steady, searching.

"You know," she said, "Daniel used to be that person for me."

That caught me off guard-not because it was hard to believe, but because she said it with such clarity, like a truth that had been waiting a long time to be spoken aloud.

I didn't know how to respond. So I didn't.

She smiled again, more faintly this time. "I'm sorry. I didn't mean to get... heavy. It's just been a strange week."

"No need to apologize," I said. "I get it."

She glanced toward the window. The skyline stretched out behind her like a paused painting-cold steel and pale morning sun. She looked smaller suddenly, not in stature but in presence. Like someone who had been holding herself up for too long.

"I should leave this on his desk," she said after a moment, reaching into her bag and pulling out a slim leather folder.

"Sure," I said, standing.

She walked past me and into the glass-walled corner office. I could see her reflection as she moved-deliberate, graceful. She placed the folder on his desk, hesitated, then ran her fingers lightly along the edge of a photo frame. Her hand lingered there for just a second too long.

Then she came back out and stopped beside me.

"Thanks for the chair. And the silence."

"Anytime."

She opened her mouth like she might say more, then paused. Her eyes met mine.

"You have kind eyes, Elijah."

I felt the words land somewhere beneath my ribs.

"Thank you," I said, voice low.

She stepped back. "That's rare here."

And then she turned and walked away, her figure disappearing into the elevator, the door sliding shut with a soft, final hiss.

I stood there for a full minute after she left, my screen still on slide twenty-three, the cursor blinking like it was waiting for me to remember how to work.

But all I could think about was the way she'd looked at me. The way she spoke-carefully, thoughtfully, like someone peeling back a layer she didn't show often.

I told myself it was nothing.

But even as I sat back down and tried to return to projections and percentages, I knew better.

Because something had changed.

And once something changes between two people, even subtly-, it's never quite the same again.

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