Chapter 4 THE WOMAN WHO TALKS BACK

The elevator ride to the top floor felt different that morning.

Amara stood alone, arms wrapped around the stack of reports she'd reviewed twice over. Her reflection in the mirrored elevator wall looked calm, polished even professional.

But inside?

A mess.

Because no amount of organized charts or perfect spreadsheets could silence the memory of Elijah Blake's fingers brushing her face the night before.

She hadn't been able to sleep. Not really. The memory kept replaying on a loop. That fleeting moment where the space between them vanished, where silence wasn't cold but heavy. Tense. Electric.

You shouldn't do that, she'd said.

And he'd replied, It just happened.

He didn't deny the moment. He didn't pull away. He didn't apologize.

He'd just left her there. Heart pounding. Confused.

The elevator doors opened, and Amara stepped onto the sixtieth floor, the soft clack of her heels echoing off polished marble. The hallway smelled faintly of cedar and espresso. Her desk waited in its usual corner organized, minimalist.

But the door to Elijah's office was already open.

And he was already inside.

Typing.

Focused.

Untouchable.

She walked past, expecting silence, but his voice stopped her mid-step.

"Come in. Close the door."

Her stomach dropped slightly.

Amara entered cautiously, shutting the heavy glass door behind her.

Elijah didn't look up from his laptop. "Sit."

She sat in the chair across from his desk. The same chair where he'd interviewed her, where he'd tested her patience, questioned her worth.

But today, the air was heavier.

Thicker.

He finished typing, then finally met her eyes.

"I reviewed the pre-merger reports you corrected," he said.

Amara straightened slightly. "And?"

"They were accurate."

She blinked. "That's a compliment, right?"

He ignored the jab. "But you flagged a line item I hadn't noticed."

Her heart kicked up. "The offshore investment line?"

He gave a short nod. "Yes. That portfolio was meant to be buried in a deferred asset pool. You found it."

"I thought it looked off," she said softly. "Too quiet. Too clean."

Elijah folded his hands in front of him.

"You've worked here four days."

"I know."

"And already, you've found something our financial director missed."

She didn't know if he was impressed or irritated.

"I wasn't trying to step on anyone's toes," she said.

"I don't care about toes," he replied. "I care about competence."

She swallowed hard.

"Which," he added, "you seem to have in spades."

A long silence followed.

"I don't give praise easily," he said.

"Really? I hadn't noticed," she replied without thinking.

His brow rose slowly.

Amara blinked. Shit.

But then

"Cute," he said. "Sarcasm before 9 A.M."

"I wasn't trying to be cute."

"You weren't trying to flirt last night, either. But things just happen around you, don't they?"

Her cheeks flushed instantly. "That... was not flirting."

His gaze lingered. "What would you call it, then?"

"Survival," she said quickly. "We were locked in. You talked. I listened."

"I remember touching your face," he said flatly.

She froze.

The room stopped breathing.

Elijah stood and walked around the desk, slowly, like a panther circling.

"I don't touch people, Miss Lane."

She stood too, uncomfortable under his intensity. "It wasn't

"But I touched you."

Her heart pounded.

"And you didn't flinch," he added.

She tried to match his gaze. "Neither did you."

They stood there, inches apart, the tension tight as a drawn bowstring.

Then his expression shifted.

Guarded. Icy.

And the moment gone.

"Elijah," she said softly, "why are you pushing this away?"

"I'm not pushing anything," he said. "I'm maintaining order."

"You're pretending nothing happened."

"Because nothing can happen."

He stepped back.

"You're my assistant. This isn't a love story, Miss Lane."

Her throat tightened.

He moved toward the window, putting distance between them. His voice dropped again, that familiar coldness returning.

"I expect your discretion. And your focus. If that's not something you can manage, let me know."

Amara exhaled, jaw tightening.

"You're unbelievable."

He turned, surprised.

"No one expects you to be human," she said. "But the second someone treats you like one-you punish them."

He said nothing.

"You can fire me if you want," she continued. "But don't act like I'm the one crossing lines. You touched me, remember?"

Another beat of silence.

Then she turned to leave.

Hand on the door, she paused. "Maybe this isn't a love story, Elijah. But maybe it's something else."

He didn't answer.

But after she walked out-

He sat back down.

And for the first time in a long time...

He wasn't sure if he wanted to be alone anymore.

Rumors and Reverberations

By noon, the entire top floor had changed.

Not officially. Not openly.

But something about the air had shifted-subtle, whispered, and just loud enough to be dangerous.

It started with glances.

From the marketing team across the glass conference room. From HR, who suddenly lingered a little too long by Amara's desk. From the intern who delivered coffee and then shot her a knowing smirk like he'd seen something.

People were talking.

Amara could feel it.

And while she'd grown up learning how to handle being the subject of whispers, she didn't appreciate the twist in her stomach every time she caught someone staring like they knew something she didn't.

She tried to focus on work.

Spreadsheets. Memos. Scheduling Elijah's phone call with the Tokyo office.

But every time the elevator dinged or footsteps passed her desk, she tensed.

What if someone had seen the way Elijah looked at her?

What if someone overheard that moment last night?

Or worse-what if someone wanted to sabotage her?

She wasn't paranoid. She was experienced. Envy didn't knock. It slithered.

She'd seen it before-people who wanted proximity to power, clawing their way toward the top by dragging someone else down.

And Elijah Blake wasn't just powerful.

He was untouchable.

No one got that close.

Except her.

And even she wasn't sure what it meant.

Inside the Lion's Den

Elijah stood with his back to the floor-to-ceiling glass windows, watching the L.A. skyline as if the entire city might disappoint him at any moment.

Across from him, Marcus Hale-his longtime friend and COO-watched with mild amusement.

"So," Marcus said, swirling a glass of bourbon he'd snuck into the boardroom, "you've got that look again."

Elijah didn't look at him. "What look?"

"The 'I'm pretending nothing's happening but I'm actually spiraling inside' look."

"Don't be dramatic."

"Oh, please. I've known you since prep school. You don't change routines unless you're rattled. And you've changed routines, Elijah."

Elijah crossed his arms. "Get to your point."

"You've had four assistants in nine months. But this one? She's still breathing. Still employed. Still working past midnight. And..." Marcus smirked, "you talk about her without meaning to."

"I do not."

"You just did."

Elijah gave him a cold look. "She's efficient."

"She's also the only person in this building who doesn't flinch when you walk into a room."

"I value her work ethic."

"You touched her face."

Elijah froze.

Marcus grinned.

"You think the walls don't talk in this building? You were locked in here during the outage. Half the floor noticed you were different the next day. You weren't yelling. You weren't cold. You were quiet. Focused. Human."

Elijah said nothing.

Marcus leaned forward, voice softer now. "She's different, isn't she?"

"She's a variable," Elijah said tightly. "And variables don't belong in equations this precise."

"But what if she's the exception?"

Elijah finally turned away from the window. "Exceptions are dangerous."

Marcus raised his glass. "So is loneliness."

Elijah didn't answer.

But later, alone in his office, he caught himself staring at her initials on a report.

A.

L.

And for the first time in years, he didn't feel in control.

The Dig

It started with a search.

A curious keystroke.

One of the junior analysts Mira Greaves, known for her expensive heels and even more expensive gossip had grown increasingly suspicious of Amara Lane's rapid integration into the company.

"Elijah Blake doesn't notice people," she whispered to a fellow assistant during lunch. "He barely notices board members. But her? He looks at her like she's not from Earth."

So she opened a browser. Did what most people with access and bad intentions do.

She searched.

Amara Lane.

Resume.

Education.

LinkedIn.

Nothing surprising at first.

University of Chicago. Business minor. Volunteer work. Internship history. A clean, albeit modest, record.

Until she scrolled further.

And saw it.

A blog post.

From five years ago.

Titled: "The Day the Sky Broke Losing My Brother to Injustice."

Mira clicked faster.

The blog described, in painful detail, how Amara's brother Tyrell Lane had been killed in an altercation with police during a traffic stop gone wrong.

The article was raw. Emotional. It included court case links, protest photos. It wasn't sensationalized it was heartfelt.

But Mira didn't care about the pain. She cared about the headline.

And she knew how to twist it.

By the end of the day, she'd printed out the article and slid it sealed in a manila folder onto the desk of the VP of Operations.

Labeled

Confidential Regarding Assistant Amara Lane

Elijah Reads the Past

Amara didn't know anything about it.

She was in the conference room, prepping for a pitch Elijah had to give to a tech partner the next morning.

He, meanwhile, was reviewing quarterly briefs when the sealed envelope was slid across his desk.

He frowned.

The handwriting on the label was unfamiliar. He opened it.

Inside:

A printout of Amara's blog post.

Highlighted paragraphs.

A sticky note on top:

"Thought you should know who's representing your office."

Elijah didn't breathe for a moment.

He read the article once.

Then again.

By the third pass, his fingers had curled into a quiet fist on the edge of his desk.

Not out of anger at her.

But at the fact that someone would weaponize her trauma for gossip.

He leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing.

He could feel it now whispers swirling through the building. Someone had started digging.

Someone had crossed a line.

And the old Elijah Blake? He might've let it pass. Might've filed it under "not my problem."

But the man Amara Lane had challenged?

He was changing.

And when he stood from his chair, it wasn't with ice in his veins.

It was with fire.

The Confrontation

Amara was in the break room, pouring tea, when Elijah entered.

He shut the door behind him.

She turned, startled. "Elijah?"

He held up the printed article.

Her blood ran cold.

She didn't move.

His voice was soft. Controlled. "Why didn't you tell me?"

"I didn't think it mattered."

"It does."

She swallowed, eyes burning. "Because now the whole floor knows?"

"Because it's yours," he said simply.

She blinked.

He stepped closer. "They used this against you."

"I'm used to it," she murmured. "People don't care about the truth. They care about scandal."

"You think I see this as scandal?"

"I think you don't know what to do with it."

He studied her for a long moment.

Then, gently, he folded the paper and placed it in the recycling bin.

"I know what to do with it," he said. "I protect it."

Amara's chest tightened.

He took one step closer, voice low. "You said last night this wasn't a love story. Maybe you're right. But whatever this is... I'm not letting anyone touch it."

Silence stretched between them.

She felt something in her begin to unravel.

Not fear

Not shame.

But trust.

For the first time in years.

A Line Crossed, A Barrier Broken

The next morning, the building was quieter than usual.

Not in volume.

But in energy.

Mira Greaves arrived to find a terse email waiting in her inbox. It was from Elijah's executive office short, direct.

"You are requested in the CEO's boardroom at 8:00 A.M. sharp.

– E. Blake"

She barely had time to freshen her lip gloss before she was seated in front of Elijah himself.

No assistants. No aides. Just him.

And a folder.

He didn't bother with pleasantries.

"Do you know what this is?" he asked coldly, holding up the file she'd so gleefully slipped into circulation the day before.

Her pulse jumped. "I well I just thought

"You thought," he cut in, "that digging into my assistant's personal life, printing out her private grief, and dropping it on the desks of my executives would get you a promotion?"

Her mouth opened. Then closed.

He leaned forward. Not yelling. But sharper than glass.

"Listen very carefully, Miss Greaves. I built this company from the ground up. I've fired people for less than what you pulled yesterday. I've dismantled careers for trying to play chess with human dignity."

"I didn't mean

"You did mean it," he snapped. "And now you'll live with the consequences."

He stood, sliding a termination letter across the table.

"Effective immediately. Security will escort you out."

She stared at the page in horror. "Elijah please

He didn't blink. "This company does not tolerate personal sabotage. Nor do I."

Mira stood shakily, the color draining from her face. "You're protecting her because you like her."

"I'm protecting her because she earned it," he said. "Now get out."

Aftermath

Amara didn't hear about it until later.

She was walking past the HR office when she heard the whispers Mira, dismissed. No notice. Just gone. People speculating. Some looking confused. Others... impressed.

But when she returned to her desk, a soft post-it was waiting on her keyboard.

Written in sharp, neat handwriting:

"Handled.

– E."

She stared at it for a long moment.

Then picked it up, gently folding it, and tucking it into the back of her notebook.

That Night

The office was quiet again.

Everyone had gone home.

Except for them.

Elijah stepped out of his office, sleeves rolled, tie undone. "I'll walk you down."

Amara raised a brow. "You never walk anyone anywhere."

He ignored the comment.

They stepped into the private elevator. The moment it closed behind them, silence pressed in warm, charged, familiar.

"You didn't have to fire her," Amara said softly.

"Yes, I did."

"She was scared."

"She should be. You don't touch people's grief."

She met his eyes. "Thank you."

He didn't answer immediately.

Then

"I meant what I said, Amara. I protect what's mine."

She blinked. "Yours?"

His voice lowered. "Don't play dumb."

"I'm not."

"Then stop pretending you don't feel it too."

The elevator doors opened.

They stepped into the underground parking level, but neither moved.

He stepped closer. Not touching. Not pressuring.

Just near enough that she could feel his presence like heat on skin.

"If I cross that line," he said slowly, "there's no going back."

Amara's pulse thudded in her ears.

"Then don't cross it," she whispered.

He tilted his head. "But what if you already dragged me halfway over?"

And just like that

She kissed him.

Not soft.

Not unsure.

A kiss like fire. Like release. Like all the tension that had simmered for four days finally boiled over into something real.

He responded instantly, hands finding her waist, mouth claiming hers like he'd been starving.

But when they pulled apart, breathless, she whispered

"This doesn't mean I trust you."

He brushed a thumb across her jaw. "Good. Trust isn't given. It's earned."

And somehow, beneath the hunger and the chaos

That felt like the most honest promise of all.