His aura

The next morning, Miya and I walked into the office together, chatting about the day ahead. I was still feeling a little proud after my conversation with Steave yesterday.

“You know,” Miya said, flipping her hair “maybe you were right. Maybe he is nice under all that ‘scary CEO’ talk.”

I smiled. “See? I told you. He’s just professional.”

We reached the meeting room early and took our seats. The rest of the team slowly filled the table, shuffling papers and opening laptops. Then, the air in the room changed.

The glass door opened, and Steave Morris stepped in. He didn’t greet anyone—he didn’t need to. His presence alone was enough to make everyone sit straighter. He placed a folder on the table and looked around at us, his expression sharp.

“Let’s begin,” he said simply.

For the first few minutes, he reviewed the project updates calmly. Then, one of the managers presented some data. I could feel the tension rising with each slide—Steave’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“This,” he said, tapping the table, “is not accurate. These numbers are three days old. Why am I seeing outdated information?”

The manager stammered. “I—I thought—”

“You thought wrong,” Steave cut in, his voice low but firm. “In this company, we work with facts, not guesses.”

The room was silent. Miya glanced at me, eyes wide. This was the side everyone had warned me about—precise, demanding, and unwilling to accept mistakes.

He went through the rest of the reports with the same sharp focus. When it came to my small part of the presentation, my hands were sweating. I explained my work carefully, making sure every number matched the latest data.

Steave listened, nodded once, and moved on without a single correction. It felt like passing an exam.

By the end of the meeting, the tension had lifted slightly. As people gathered their papers, I heard Steave say quietly, “Good work, Ms. Pollad.” It wasn’t loud, but it was enough for my heart to skip.

When we left the room, Miya whispered, “Okay, I see what you mean. He is nice… but I wouldn’t want to be on his bad side.”

I couldn’t help but agree. Yesterday he had shown me his kindness. Today He had shown me his power. That evening, I went straight home, feeling both drained and strangely alert. I dropped my bag on the couch, kicked off my heels, and filled the bathtub with warm, rose-scented water.

Sinking in, I let the heat relax my tense shoulders. My mind should have been on tomorrow’s workload… but it kept drifting back to Steave Morris.

The way he walked into the meeting room without saying a word, yet everyone instantly sat straighter. The way his voice could be calm one moment and razor-sharp the next. The unexpected “Good work, Ms. Pollad” still echoed in my ears.

I caught myself smiling and quickly shook my head. Stop it, Liza. He’s your boss. He’s the CEO. Off limits.

After my bath, I put on my soft pajamas and made a cup of chamomile tea. The city lights glowed through my apartment window, but my mind was still replaying moments from the day.

When I finally slipped into bed, the sheets felt cool against my skin. I closed my eyes, telling myself to rest, but the image of Steave’s face—calm, confident, and unreadable—lingered in the dark.

Somewhere between thinking of him and trying not to, I drifted off to sleep.

And in my dreams, I was still on the 15th floor.

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