Part 3 — A Warning

The shopping bag felt oddly heavy in her hand.

It wasn’t the sandals—they were light, delicate things, their leather straps coiled neatly inside a glossy box. The weight came from somewhere else entirely.

The walk from the store back to the office had been quiet. She had stopped twice at traffic lights, not because the red light was on, but because she couldn’t seem to move forward. And yet, here she was, standing outside Laird’s cabin once again.

The door was closed. She hesitated a second, then knocked—firmly this time.

A deep voice came from inside.

"What is it?"

Pushing the door open, she stepped in, holding the bag like it was something fragile.

"I came to give the sandals," she said.

He didn’t even look up from the file in his hands.

"Okay. Keep them here and leave."

She set the bag down on the edge of his desk. She was about to turn when his voice came again—sharper now, like a sudden crack in the air.

"Yara."

She looked at him.

His eyes finally lifted from the papers, fixing on her with a cool precision that felt more like an interrogation than a glance.

"Maybe you should stop looking at me like that," he said. "And stop giving me so much attention."

Her fingers curled slightly at her sides, but she stayed still.

"Stop taking care of me," he continued, his tone unflinching. "I don’t need it."

The words landed heavily, stripping the moment of any pretence. She didn’t answer. There was nothing to say—not when everything she wanted to express would only sound like defiance. Instead, she simply nodded once and walked out, the echo of his voice following her into the corridor.

---

But Yara didn’t stop.

Maybe it was habit. Maybe it was stubbornness. Maybe it was because she knew, deep down, that care wasn’t something you gave only when it was wanted—it was something you gave because you couldn’t help it.

Two mornings later, she noticed his hand lingering on his lower back again after a meeting. That afternoon, a fresh cup of strong coffee appeared on the corner of his desk. She didn’t deliver it herself—the assistant did—but she saw him glance at it before continuing with his work.

The next day, during another long discussion, she noticed him rubbing his temple discreetly. Without a word, she slid a blister pack of painkillers across the table toward the assistant to pass on.

He didn’t thank her. He didn’t even acknowledge her. But she kept going.

---

Three days after the sandal incident, her desk phone rang.

It was his voice again—low, steady, giving nothing away.

"Come in."

She entered his cabin, closing the door behind her. This time, there was no Eva. No cherries. No casual laughter. Just Laird at his desk, pen in hand, eyes on her the moment she stepped forward.

"Tell me the truth, Yara," he said without preamble. His tone was the same one he used when questioning vendors—direct, unyielding. "You’re working so hard because you think I’ll give you a promotion?"

She froze for half a second, then her gaze steadied on him.

"So you think I’m using you for my career?" she asked, her voice quiet but clear.

Something flickered in his expression—whether irritation or something else, she couldn’t tell.

The air between them was taut, stretched too thin for comfort. Outside the glass wall of his cabin, the rest of the office moved on with its usual rhythm—calls being made, emails being typed, the hum of productivity filling the space. But here, inside this room, it was just the two of them, standing at the edge of an unspoken cliff.

Her face remained unreadable. She wasn’t angry, though his words could have cut like a blade. She wasn’t hurt—not visibly. But there was a weight in her gaze, as if she were silently asking him something he couldn’t bring himself to answer.

He leaned back slightly, studying her as if trying to decide whether she was telling the truth. But the truth wasn’t the point anymore. The point was that he wanted distance. And she refused to give it to him.

"Yara," he said finally, his voice softening just a fraction, "you need to understand something. I don’t mix… personal feelings with work. Whatever you’re doing—it’s unnecessary."

Her lips curved, but it wasn’t a smile. More like an acknowledgement of a truth she already knew.

"Noted," she said, and turned toward the door.

But as she reached for the handle, she heard him exhale—quiet, controlled, as if letting out a frustration he hadn’t meant to reveal.

She didn’t look back.

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***