Cracks

The rest of the afternoon passed under a strained silence.

Praise remained in the outer office, organizing schedules and answering the few calls Dylan allowed him to handle. Every time the private door opened, he felt Dylan’s gaze land on him and stay a fraction too long.

The easy confidence Praise had carried since arriving at the mansion was gone. In its place was a careful, measured stillness.

He had made a mistake, a serious one as that.

After the final meeting ended, Dylan dismissed the remaining staff with a single look. The executive floor emptied quickly, only the two of them remained.

Dylan stood by the window, with hands fixed in his pockets as he watched the rain streak down the glass. “Come here.”

Praise walked over and stopped just a few feet away. But Dylan did not turn.

“You handled that file like someone who already knew what was inside it,” He quietly said.

 “I reacted the way anyone would when they see a name they recognize.”

“Most people don’t recognize a terminated model from seven months ago with that much intensity.” Praise said nothing.

Dylan finally turned. His expression unreadable, but his eyes were sharper than Praise had ever seen them.

“I’ve reviewed the security footage from last night,” Dylan continued. “You waited until I left the room. Then you went straight to the folder. You didn’t hesitate or search. You knew exactly where to look.”

Praise’s pulse jumped, but he forced his face to remain calm. “I saw a name which drew my curiosity.”

“Curious,” Dylan repeated. The word sounded like an accusation.

 “Vanel Lense was declared dead after a car accident. The company paid compensation and the case was closed. Why does a dead man still interest you this much?”

“Maybe because the report suggested someone wanted him gone before the accident ever happened.” Praise met his gaze.

Dylan’s jaw tightened, and for a moment, anger and unease flickered across his face. “That report was internal,” he said. “Very few people ever saw it. Even fewer should still have access to it.”

“Then maybe you should be asking who left it on your desk.”

The air between them shifted. Dylan studied him for a long time, as if trying to match the man in front of him with a ghost he had already buried.

“You’re not afraid of me,” Dylan observed.

“Should I be?”

“Most people are.”

“I’m not most people.” Praise’s voice stayed quiet.

Dylan took a single step closer. The space between them narrowed until Praise could feel the controlled heat of his presence. “No,” He slowly said. “You’re not.”

He reached past Praise and picked up the black folder from the desk. His fingers brushed the edge of the photograph of Vanel Lense. For a brief second his expression softened, almost regretful before it hardened again.

“Go back to the estate,” He ordered. “I’ll return later.”

“Yes, sir.” He inclined his head. Praise instantly turned and walked toward the door. Just as he reached it, Dylan called.

“Renard.” He stopped but did not look back.

“If I find out you’re lying to me,” Dylan said, his voice low and dangerous, “there will be consequences you can’t blame me for.”

Praise allowed himself the smallest smile, one Dylan could not see.

“I would expect nothing less, sir.” He left the office.

Behind him, Dylan remained standing by the window, with the folder still in his hand. Rain continued to fall against the glass. He felt like the carefully ordered world he had controlled for the past four months, begin to crack.