Her day off began the way most of her days had before she started working for him—slow, familiar, unremarkable.
She woke to the sound of her mother moving around the kitchen, drawers opening and closing with soft thuds, the faint hiss of oil heating in a pan. Morning light filtered through thin curtains, warming the small room in patches. For a moment, she stayed in bed, staring at the ceiling she had known since childhood.
It should have felt grounding.
Instead, her chest felt tight.
She sat up slowly, brushing her hair back, and almost immediately the memory surfaced—uninvited, vivid.
The blackout.
The sudden way the lights had vanished, plunging the office floor into darkness. The unnatural quiet that followed. And the man standing beside her, so different from the one everyone else saw.
She pressed her feet against the floor, as if the solidness of it could push the memory away.
In the kitchen, her mother looked up and smiled. "You're awake already? I thought you'd sleep in."
She shook her head slightly and sat at the table. Her father was already dressed, phone in hand, muttering about traffic. Her sibling scrolled through something, barely listening.
She accepted a plate, murmured thanks, and ate quietly.
Someone asked about work.
"It's… okay," she said, because it was the safest answer.
No one pressed further.
She was grateful for that.
After breakfast, she helped with the dishes. The water was warm, comforting. Her hands moved automatically, her thoughts drifting despite her effort to stay present.
It hadn't been the first time.
The elevator came back to her then, unbidden.
Her first week. Still nervous. Still unsure where to stand or how much space to give. The elevator had stopped abruptly between floors, the lights flickering but not going out completely. People sighed, shifted, complained.
He had been there too.
She remembered noticing him because she noticed everything—how he went quiet, how his jaw tightened, how his gaze locked onto the floor numbers above the door. His breathing had changed, subtle but unmistakable, controlled in a way that suggested effort.
She had wondered then if she was imagining it.
When the elevator moved again, he had straightened instantly, mask perfectly in place. No one spoke of it. Neither had she.
At the time, she told herself it didn't matter.
Now she wasn't so sure.
Two incidents. Two moments where the polished surface cracked just enough for her to see what lay beneath.
She dried her hands slowly, staring at the window above the sink. Sunlight spilled onto the street outside, children's voices drifting up faintly. Life continued, uncomplicated.
She felt an odd pull in her chest—not curiosity exactly, and not fear. More like concern she had no right to feel.
She wondered if he was angry.If he regretted her presence that night.
The thought unsettled her more than she expected.
She didn't want to be remembered. Especially not like that.
Several kilometers away, the CEO's apartment was lit like a showroom.
Every light was on.
He stood in the center of his living room, arms folded, staring at the illuminated walls as if daring them to betray him. The city outside glittered with thousands of tiny points of light, reassuring and relentless.
Twice.
The word burned.
Once could be dismissed. Coincidence. Stress.
Twice meant pattern.
He exhaled sharply and poured himself a drink, then another small measure, irritation simmering beneath his composure. The blackout replayed in his mind against his will—the sudden darkness, the loss of control, the way his body had reacted before his mind could stop it.
And her.
Quiet. Still. Watching without staring.
Worse than curiosity was her gentleness.
He hated that it lingered.
His phone buzzed.
He glanced at it and scowled.
Assistant.
He answered curtly. "What."
"Wow. Someone's charming tonight," the assistant replied. "Did I catch you mid–villain monologue?"
"I left my tablet."
"Yes, you did. Again. I'm starting to think you do it on purpose just to see me."
"I don't need entertainment."
"Strongly disagree. You're terrible at relaxing."
He hesitated, then said, "Come over."
A pause. "You're inviting me to your apartment? Should I be concerned?"
"Just come."
"On my way. And I'm bringing judgment."
He hung up before he could respond.
Twenty minutes later, the doorbell rang.
The assistant stepped inside, took one look around, and whistled. "Wow. Is this a power outage support group meeting?"
"Don't."
"Every light is on," the assistant continued, strolling in. "Even the decorative ones. Are you afraid they'll unionize and turn off together?"
"Sit down."
The assistant did, grinning. "Okay. So. Something happened."
He poured another drink and didn't offer one. "Someone saw."
The assistant's grin sharpened. "Saw what?"
He stared into his glass. "…Me."
"Oh," the assistant said softly. Then, after a beat, "Oof."
He shot him a glare. "Don't."
"I'm just saying, that explains the lighting situation."
Silence stretched.
"Who?" the assistant asked.
"A staff member."
"Old?"
"No."
"New?"
"Yes."
The assistant winced theatrically. "Oh, that's rough. New hires are like toddlers. No filter."
"She hasn't said anything."
"Yet," the assistant said. "So. Who is she?"
He stiffened. "It doesn't matter."
"Ah. That's a yes," the assistant said smugly. "Is she pretty?"
He looked up sharply. "That's irrelevant."
"So that's another yes."
He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Stop."
"What? I'm curious. You're suddenly spiraling over one employee. That's new."
"She saw me twice."
The assistant blinked. "Twice?"
"The elevator. And the blackout."
"Oh wow," the assistant said, impressed. "She's collecting your limited-edition vulnerabilities."
"That's not funny."
"It's a little funny."
He scowled. "I need to decide what to do."
"Okay," the assistant said seriously. "Let's walk through it. Is she ambitious?"
"No."
"Talkative?"
"No."
"Does she seem like the type to gossip?"
"No."
"Then why are you panicking?"
He hesitated. "Because she didn't react."
The assistant tilted his head. "Didn't scream? Didn't run?"
"Didn't judge," he said quietly.
The assistant's teasing softened just a fraction. "Ah."
Then it snapped right back. "So. You like her."
"I do not."
"You're thinking about her at home, drinking dramatically under stadium lighting. That's not neutral behavior."
"She's just… there."
The assistant grinned. "That's how it starts."
He groaned. "I am not interested."
"Sure. But is she kind?"
He didn't answer.
The assistant laughed. "Oh, you're doomed."
"She's a new hire," he snapped. "And she knows something she shouldn't."
"She knows you're human," the assistant said. "Tragic."
He leaned back, frustration evident. "What if she talks?"
"Then we handle it," the assistant shrugged. "But honestly? I don't think she will."
"You don't know that."
"I know people," the assistant replied. "And I know you scare loud ones more than quiet ones."
He fell silent.
The assistant studied him, then smirked. "You should thank her."
He nearly choked. "Absolutely not."
"Fine. Then do nothing. Stop overthinking. And maybe," he gestured around, "turn off a light."
He stood, heading for the door. "Try not to interrogate her about her feelings. Or fall for her. Or install more lamps."
The door closed.
Alone again, he stood in the brightness, city lights reflecting in the glass.
Twice.
He didn't like it.
But somewhere, beneath the irritation and control, something else stirred—unwelcome and unresolved.
And for the first time in a long while, darkness wasn't the only thing he feared.