Cracks Appear

The sixty-eighth floor of Vance Industries felt empty after midnight, Sloane’s heels echoing on the concrete as she walked back from the kitchenette with cold coffee in her hand while her desk glowed alone in the darkness, covered in plans for the Tokyo flagship that she stayed late to perfect after Nathaniel casually said he liked the idea of blended aesthetics.

The building was so quiet she could hear the servers humming three rooms away.

Then she saw it, a thin gold line of light under his office door, sharp in the darkness.  She paused, Nathaniel had said he was having dinner with the Zurich investors and would be at Le Grillon until at least eleven and then go straight home, but she had checked the time when her team left at 10:47 and now it was 12:23.

His car was in the executive garage when she went down for her purse an hour ago, the black Bentley sitting in its reserved spot, still warm. She assumed he had taken a car service to dinner or that maintenance had moved it.

But he was here.

The coffee cup trembled in her hand as she set it on the nearest desk, the ceramic touching wood with a soft click that sounded loud in the silence, she moved closer to his door with her heels left behind and her stockinged feet quiet on the concrete.

His voice reached her first, low and tense, not the warm baritone that quoted poetry over wine or the measured tone that commanded boardrooms, but something stripped down, colder. “…timeline can’t slip, Marcus. Not by a single day.” A pause, then quieter and more dangerous, “I don’t care what her lawyers think they’ve found, the language is ironclad and you know it.”

Her. The word lingered in the air as Sloane moved closer to the door, pressing her hand to the cold glass as she felt her heart pounding.

“The twenty-eighth is non-negotiable.” Nathaniel continued, his voice sent a chill through her. 

“Once it’s signed, the window closes. After that…” A sound that might have been a laugh, except there was no humor in it. “After that, what she wants becomes irrelevant.”

Sloane covered her mouth and tried to make sense of his words. He had mentioned Barcelona yesterday, the deal he had been working on for months. The difficult CEO, the woman who’d nearly torpedoed the deal twice already. It had to be about that.

“No, don’t send it to the office, use the encrypted channel we set up.” He said sharply. “And Marcus?” A pause that seemed to stretch and thin. “She can’t know yet, not until after.”

The room went completely silent

Sloane noticed she was holding her breath and slowly inhaled as quietly as she could, but her heart was pounding so loudly she feared he could hear it. She wanted to move away, to return to her desk and pretend she’d heard nothing but her legs wouldn’t obey.

The light beneath the door vanished.

Startled, she stumbled over the rug and grabbed a desk chair for balance, which slid across the floor with a sharp sound.

The door opened.

Nathaniel Blackwell stood in the dim office light, shoulders broad. His tie was loose, shirt unbuttoned at the top, and sleeves rolled up to his elbow. For a brief moment, his face was open, his green eyes still and intense, making her unease.

His face changed as he recognized her; worry showed on his brow, and his mouth softened into a nearly tender expression.

“Sloane?” His asked warmly. “Why are you still here, darling?”

He walked onto the open office floor, moving with the same effortless grace that had drawn her at the Milan conference years ago. But now she saw something new: he stood between her and his office door, his hand resting on the frame as if to block her view inside.

“I was working on Tokyo,” she said, her voice trembling, too high and thin. “The presentation for next week.”

“At midnight?” He closed the distance between them with three long steps, looking at her with genuine concern. “You’ll make yourself sick pushing this hard.”

“I thought you were at dinner with Zurich.” The words came out more sharply than she’d meant it. “At Le Grillon.”

A glint danced in his eyes, quick and unreadable. “It ended early. All of it was dreadfully boring.” His hand touched her cheek, warm and gentle. “You’re trembling. Are you alright?”

She wasn’t okay. She stood in the dark with a man she’d been with for two years, a man whose touch thrilled her, and every part of her wanted to run. “Who were you talking to?” she blurted.

“Marcus from legal,” Nathaniel said easily. “A last-minute problem with an international contract came up, tedious stuff.” He traced her jaw with his thumb, and she had to fight not to flinch. “Why do you ask?”

Because you said ‘she can’t know yet.’ Because you said ‘after that, what she wants becomes irrelevant.’ Because the way you’re looking at me feels fake, and I don’t know when it started. She thought to herself before responding, “No reason.”

He looked at her for a long time, then seemed to decide something. He lowered his hand from her face and gave a small, awkward smile.

“I didn’t mean to worry you. Come on.” He kissed her forehead but she felt only fear. His hand rested possessively on her back as he turned toward his office. “I’ll grab my things and drive you home. It’s too late for you to be here alone.”

She let him guide her forward, uneasy with every step. Through his open door she could see his desk, the sleek glass surface nearly bare except for a dark computer and a single folder closed beside it.

Red tab. Legal documents were always red-tabbed at Vance Industries. In his bold handwriting, a single word stood out at the edge of the folder. 

"Execute".

Fear rushed through her.

“Sloane?” Nathaniel’s voice came from very close, his breath warm against her ear. “You’re certain you’re alright? You’ve gone terribly pale.”

She looked at him and saw his face just inches away, his green eyes searching and unreadable. His hand stayed on her back, keeping her close, and she realized she might never have truly known what was behind those eyes.

“I’m fine,” she lied, staring at his smile that hid from the dark corners she was just beginning to notice.

“Good,” he said quietly but sharply. “Let’s get you home.”

As he tucked the red-tabbed folder into his briefcase, Sloane noticed the desk calendar next to his computer.

January 28th, circled in red which is five days away.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​