Chapter 3 Three

Florence's POV

It's been two weeks. Fourteen days of perfectly ironed blouses, multiple rounds of fake smiles, and emotional gymnastics.

I now know the exact time Anthony St. Louis arrives every morning, 8:01 a.m., the number of sugars he doesn't want in his coffee, and that he reviews contracts with the same emotional warmth as someone reading a soup label or a bland soup recipe.

Every day, I sit in the glass corner of his office, silently judging him while pretending to be buried in spreadsheets. And every day, he hands me work like a machine, never faltering, never hesitating, like I'm just another pawn in his shiny, joyless empire.

It all started last Monday, when one of the interns spilled coffee on herself in the elevator. She looked close to tears in her coffee stained dress.

"Take a break," I whispered as I passed her. "Go wash up."

Anthony stepped in seconds later, looked at the stain, and said, "That cup cost $4.20. Get another one and don't make the client wait next time."

The girl nodded quickly, face flushed. When we got to the office, I said nothing. Just set his coffee on his desk with a tight smile.

"You're very consistent," I said sweetly. "Like a very charming death robot."

He didn't respond to me and just handed me a file to type.

He was on a call later that day when a florist arrived with condolence flowers for a business partner who had just unfortunately lost his wife.

Anthony glanced at the bouquet and frowned. "Too sentimental. It is giving the wrong message. Send back something more... neutral."

I blinked at him. "Ah, yes. Wouldn't want to remind a grieving man that his wife is dead with nice sentimental flowers."

He looked up, just briefly. "Handle it."

I did handle it, but I made sure to include a sympathy note that read 'Some losses don't show up on balance sheets.'

Was it petty? Yes it was but also worth it.

By Wednesday, his receptionist, Janine looked like she was one file away from collapsing on the floor. I tried to lighten her load, quietly picking up some of her minor tasks, like proofreading investor emails or organizing the boardroom bookings.

When I mentioned it casually, he just said, "If she's struggling, she'll be replaced."

That was when I muttered under my breath, "So will your soul, when hell finally reclaims it."

He didn't respond. He probably didn't hear me.

******

On Thursday, I asked for a one-hour break to take my mother to the clinic. She was having a panic attack again, trying to find the family photo album she swore my dad had taken to work.

"I can spare thirty minutes," he said without looking at me.

I paused. "Your generosity overwhelms me. Truly."

"I don't pay you for flattery."

No, you pay me for silence. For the illusion that everything here works like clockwork, not because you've built a good system but because everyone's too scared to fall out of it.

The next day, we had a scheduled fire drill. Everyone had stepped outside, laughing, stretching their legs, enjoying the break.

Contrary to Anthony who stood beside me, scrolling through emails.

"Sir," I said, eyes forward, "this building could be on actual fire, and you'd still be reorganizing your Q4 targets."

He didn't even blink. "That's because deadlines are fireproof."

I turned away so he wouldn't see my eye roll.

That afternoon, while reviewing résumés for a new PR officer, he said, "I don't like emotional types. They're unstable, business needs clear heads, not bleeding hearts."

I tilted my head. "So to you empathy is... what? A liability?"

"In this company? Yes."

I stared at him. "Do you ever cry?"

He looked up for the first time that day. "Do you?"

I smiled. "Only when I run out of wine."

**********

Janine and I pooled money for the accountant's impromptu birthday. Nothing fancy, just a small cake in the break room. I didn't expect Anthony to come over. I didn't want him to spoil the mood with his gloomy aura.

But he passed by, paused for a second, and said, "You know this will cut into everyone's work time."

I offered him a slice of cake. "It's chocolate. Maybe it'll melt the ice wall where your heart should be."

He looked at the cake, then back at me.

"Too sweet," he said. "Like distractions."

I laughed, loud enough for people's heads to turn. "Wow. That must be your wedding toast."

His gaze lingered on me for a beat too long. I turned away, pretending not to care.

That night, as I rode the elevator down to the lobby, my reflection stared back at me. Hair in a tight bun, tired eyes, stiff shoulders.

He made me angry, that was true. But not in the explosive, fiery way I expected.

It was colder than that, quiet and silently gnawing at my chest. It was the weird way he seemed to float above human emotion like it was a distraction, the way he walked past people without looking or feeling anything. Like they were all objects to be used and replaced when faulty.

He was everything I thought he would be, and maybe worse.

And still, I caught myself watching him sometimes. Studying the little frown he wore when reading bad reports, the tension in his jaw when someone wasted time, the briefest flicker of something in his eyes when he thought no one was looking.

Was that... pain? In them?

No, it couldn't be. Not with him.

I shook the thought out of my head.He didn't care, he was incapable of that.

And if I ever forgot that, I just had to remember what he did to Gabriel, dad and me. How he destroyed my family.

I got off the elevator, heels clicking against marble, and headed home. Tomorrow, I'd be back. With another smile, and another perfectly filed document hiding another hidden plan.

Because I was here for a reason, and no amount of designer suits or quiet brooding would distract me from it. Not even if his eyes were the exact color of the storm I still carried inside me.