Silver Adams woke up with a strange sense of calm.
For the first time in weeks, the weight on her chest felt lighter. Raymond's words from the night before lingered in her mind—not promises, not pressure, just quiet assurance. I won't rush you.
She repeated them like a shield as she prepared for work.
At Cole Media & Publishing, the morning meeting began as usual. Manuscripts, deadlines, projections. Silver took notes carefully, her posture straight, her focus sharp. But something inside her had shifted.
When the discussion turned to a new digital imprint, a senior editor dismissed a logistical concern.
"That's minor," he said. "We can sort it out later."
Silver hesitated.
In the past, she would have stayed silent. Today, she didn't.
"If we wait," she said calmly, "it could delay the launch by weeks. I've reviewed the workflow, and there's a way to restructure it now."
The room fell quiet.
Raymond looked up.
"Go on," he said.
Silver explained her idea, her voice steady despite the attention. When she finished, there was a pause—then nods around the table.
"That makes sense," someone said.
Raymond's gaze stayed on her a moment longer than necessary. "Let's do it."
Silver felt a small surge of pride.
She had spoken. And she had been heard.
Later that day, Raymond faced his own challenge.
In a closed-door meeting with board members, concern was raised—thinly veiled, carefully worded.
"There's talk," one of them said. "About favoritism."
Raymond's expression remained neutral. "Then the talk is misplaced."
"It's not personal," another added. "But perception—"
"—does not override merit," Raymond interrupted calmly. "Silver Adams is capable. If her work makes people uncomfortable, perhaps they should examine why."
Silence followed.
Raymond leaned back. "I won't limit talent to appease gossip."
The discussion moved on, but the tension lingered.
That evening, Silver was gathering her things when Raymond approached her desk.
"Walk with me?" he asked.
She nodded.
They stepped out into the cool evening air, the city humming softly around them. For a while, they walked in silence.
"You did well today," Raymond said.
She smiled faintly. "I almost didn't speak."
"I'm glad you did."
Silver glanced at him. "You defended me again, didn't you?"
Raymond didn't deny it. "I defended what was right."
She stopped walking and turned to face him. "You don't have to keep doing that."
"I know," he said gently. "But I want to."
The honesty in his voice made her heart ache.
"I'm still scared," she admitted. "But I don't want fear to decide everything anymore."
Raymond stepped closer, careful, unhurried.
"I won't ask for more than you're ready to give," he said. "But I need you to know—I'm not here out of curiosity or convenience."
She searched his face, looking for cracks, for doubt.
She found none.
Slowly, she reached out, her fingers brushing his sleeve—just once.
It was a small gesture.
But it felt like a decision.
Raymond inhaled sharply, his restraint evident.
"Silver," he murmured.
She looked up at him, heart racing. "Just… stay."
He did.
They stood there, close but not touching, the moment soft and charged all at once.
That night, Silver returned home feeling stronger than she had in a long time.
She hadn't kissed him.
She hadn't crossed any lines.
But she had chosen not to run.
Across the city, Raymond Cole stared at his reflection, knowing the rules he'd bent and the ones he still refused to break.
Power had always been easy.
Patience was new.
And Silver Adams was teaching him both.