AURORA
I’m an unapologetic fan of routine. The kind of person who finds poetry in hot coffee, the clatter of keys, and the comfort of knowing exactly what’s going to happen next. Routine kept me grounded. It reminded me that I was just a lost intern in the world—not a character in a gothic novel about to be devoured by a supernaturally handsome CEO.
But that morning… oh, routine didn’t stand a chance of saving me.
I arrived early, as always, balancing my coffee, my notebook, and my attempt to look like a functioning adult. The 21st floor was cool and quiet, lit by those enormous windows that made the entire city look like a futuristic painting.
I took a deep breath.
Work. Normalcy. Printing. Spreadsheets. The simple life.
After all, whatever had happened yesterday had to be nothing more than a misunderstanding. A scare. A stupid little cut.
The problem was, the universe loved calling me delusional.
I sat at my executive assistant’s desk, organized the maintenance requests, checked the week’s schedule, and started updating the department’s intake reports. I did everything automatically, almost meditatively—typed, checked, breathed, drank coffee, repeated. My way of existing.
Until I felt it.
I didn’t see him.
I didn’t hear him.
But I felt him.
That same shiver from the printer. The same density in the air. The same sensation that gravity had shifted only around me.
I slowly raised my head.
And, of course, he was there.
Adrian Thorne.
The big boss. The CEO. The man who should have been busy with million-dollar meetings, but seemed to prefer leaning against the hallway wall and… watching me.
He didn’t speak.
He didn’t smile.
He didn’t cross his arms.
He just… looked at me.
And it was such an intense, sharp, silent look that it seemed far too open—as though it could pierce through bones, thoughts, and my entire soul if it wanted to.
I tried to ignore him.
I swear I tried.
I looked away, pretended to review an email, and took a deep breath.
But he stayed there.
I could see him in my peripheral vision: tall, standing perfectly still, like a marble statue with blond hair sculpted specifically to make me uncomfortable.
And you know what the worst part was?
Everyone on the floor walked past him as if it were perfectly normal for the CEO to appear out of nowhere and stand in the hallway without blinking. No one thought it was strange. No one even looked twice.
Just me.
Just that idiot of a girl who had cut herself in front of him.
I downed my coffee in a gulp that was far too big and burned myself, of course. But I kept working. I updated reports, answered emails, and checked the manager’s schedule.
Maybe he was just analyzing me. After all, I was the executive assistant to his right-hand man.
My discomfort had to be about as obvious as a flashing neon billboard.
When I finally took a deep enough breath to gather some courage, I raised my eyes—and came face-to-face with him… closer.
Like, three steps closer.
Like… inside my personal space.
His territory.
I only existed there because he allowed it.
“Mr. Thorne.” I tried to sound like an adult, mature, and completely untraumatized. “Can I help you with something?”
He tilted his head slightly. A small, feline, calculated movement.
“You are working,” he said, almost as an observation.
“Yeah… yes.” I forced a smile. “That’s what I’m here for.”
That answer should have made him continue on his way, right?
Busy CEO.
Million-dollar things to decide.
The corporate world didn’t run itself.
But no.
He stayed.
Or rather, he moved even closer, until he was on the other side of my desk, as if he wanted to analyze every detail of my face.
“You seem nervous,” he said.
There it was. I was dead. Here lies Aurora Bennett, murdered by embarrassment.
“I’m not nervous,” I lied shamelessly. “It’s just… Monday.”
He arched one eyebrow in that way British people did, as if they were born experts in silent sarcasm.
“Today is Tuesday,” he corrected.
Wonderful. I was officially a human joke.
“I know,” I replied, without knowing what else to say. “It was a joke.”
He watched me as if he were trying to figure out whether humor was some kind of modern contagious disease.
But then something changed in his expression.
A tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth.
Almost a smile.
Almost.
“The press has requested my presence at a press conference next week,” he said. “I prefer to avoid crowds. But I cannot.”
“I understand…” I replied. And I understood nothing. “If you wish, I can assist with preparing the documents. The schedule. Logistics. Those sorts of things.”
He blinked slowly, as if something in my offer had struck a part of him I didn’t understand.
“You do your work carefully,” he remarked, with no apparent emotion. “A rare quality these days.”
That wasn’t a compliment.
It was almost a scientific study.
“Thank you…?” I replied, unsure whether I should smile or escape through the window.
He looked away for the first time since he’d arrived. He took a deep breath—and I swear, I swear that for one second, I thought his eyes had grown slightly darker. Just a shade. But darker.
“How is your hand?” he asked.
Oh. The cut.
I’d forgotten about it. He clearly hadn’t.
“It’s fine. Just a scratch.” I turned my hand over to show him. “It’s almost completely healed.”
He studied the back of my hand as if he were reading a prophecy written on my skin.
And then… that same restrained sigh.
That same breath that seemed like an addiction that had never quite been cured.
My heart sped up.
His… who knew.
He didn’t breathe for long stretches of time.
And when he did breathe… it was only when I moved.
Or was that just my imagination?
“Good,” he said, straightening back into his elegant posture. “Continue your work, Aurora.”
He turned to leave.
And I thought that was it.
That the strange chapter would end there.
But at the door, he stopped.
He looked over his shoulder.
“Avoid dangerous machines,” he said, his voice lower than before. “It would be… regrettable to lose you over something so insignificant.”
And then he vanished down the hallway as if he had melted into the shadow of the wall.
And I stood there, holding my coffee, my report, and my unsteady heart, thinking:
Was that some kind of warning?
Or, worse yet…
Why did that make me worry?