7. I'm Strong

Elena's POV

Don’t cry, don’t cry, don’t cry.

You’re strong. You can handle this. You can handle him.

I stared at the mirror in front of me—eyes red, swollen, and glassy. My reflection didn’t look like me anymore. But I didn’t have the luxury of falling apart. I had deadlines, expectations, and a mask to wear.

Still, the bruise on my side throbbed—a cruel reminder of last night. It pulsed with every breath, every movement, like it was mocking me.

“Fuck,” I whispered, pressing my palm to the sink to steady myself. I need to get over this.

But even as I said it, I wasn’t sure if I believed it.

My head felt like it might split open—sharp, pulsing pain radiating from behind my eyes and crawling down the back of my neck. I leaned over the sink, letting cold water run through my trembling fingers before splashing it onto my face. The shock of it didn’t help much. It didn’t erase the heaviness in my chest or the throbbing bruise beneath the collar of my blouse. But at least it made me feel… awake.

Barely.

I stared at myself in the mirror.

Bloodshot eyes.

A pale, drawn face.

Lips chewed raw and trembling.

That couldn’t be me—not the version of me I used to be. But right now, there was no time for breakdowns. No time for tears or tenderness. Just work. Just silence. Just surviving.

I fixed my expression the best I could and stepped out of the restroom, back into the cool, quiet air of the office. My heels echoed dully against the floor, and though a few heads turned slightly, no one really looked at me.

Good.

I didn’t want the stares, the questions, or the pity. I walked past them all with my head lowered, every step a reminder of the pain under my ribs from the night before. It throbbed with each movement—sharp and hot—but I clenched my jaw and ignored it.

I reached my desk and sank into the chair, the familiar creak of it almost grounding me. I placed my hands on the keyboard, took a breath, and started working. My fingers flew across the keys, typing on autopilot. It was easier to fall into a rhythm than to think. It's easier to stay numb than to feel. The scene from last night kept replaying behind my eyes, every word, every bruise, every cruel silence echoing inside me like a scream caught in a closed room.

I blinked fast, refusing to let the tears fall. But one escaped—just one, hot and uninvited. It slid down my cheek, and I wiped it away quickly with the back of my hand. No one could see. No one would see. I was here to work, to function, not to fall apart.

I glanced up, needing a moment to ground myself—and my eyes landed on the desk in front of me. Greta. She was watching me. Not intrusively. Not noisily. Just... with that soft, gentle look in her eyes. The kind people give when they know something’s wrong but won’t ask. Her brows knit together, lips pressing into a faint line. Concern. Sympathy.

I looked away.

I didn’t have the words to tell her I was fine. And I wasn’t.

And honestly, I didn’t want to lie today.

So I did the only thing I could. I dropped my gaze back to the screen.

And I typed.

I glanced at the clock; seventy-five minutes left.

Forty-five minutes left. My fingers moved on instinct, typing line after line, but I wasn’t really reading what I wrote. The words blurred, the buzzing in my head growing louder. I took a shaky breath, wiped my cheek again, and forced myself to focus. No time for weakness. I had to finish this. I couldn’t let him win here too.

Thirty minutes left.

The pain in my side had dulled into a numb throb. My posture stiff, I adjusted in my seat, trying not to let it distract me. Paragraph after paragraph, I edited and rephrased, clinging to the task like it was the only thing tethering me to reality. My screen lit up with progress, but my body begged for a break. I didn’t listen.

Fifteen minutes left; I was almost there. Just a few final sections. I could feel the weight of the deadline press against the back of my skull like a ticking bomb. Greta passed by again. I didn’t meet her eyes. My fingers ached. My shoulders were tight. But the finish line was near.

With five minutes left, I took one final glance at the screen, heart racing, and clicked through the pages. Everything was there. Every number, every line, every soul-draining word. I hesitated only for a second—then moved the cursor to the corner.

With a sharp exhale, I clicked.
File saved. Closed.

Done.

I stood outside his office door, the tablet clutched in my hands, the screen still glowing with the last slide.

The clock above the hallway read 9:58.

Two minutes early.

I knocked once, the sound firm but quieter than I intended.

“Come in,” came the familiar voice—smooth, indifferent.

I pushed the glass door open and stepped inside.

He didn’t look up immediately. He was scribbling something in a leather-bound notebook with one of those obnoxiously expensive Montblanc pens. His suit jacket was draped over the back of the chair, sleeves rolled up, veins flexing along his forearms as he wrote.

God, he looked like power incarnate.

But also like a threat.

His eyes flicked to the clock on the wall, and a smirk tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Two minutes early,” he said, the amusement unmistakable in his voice. “Miss Hart, I’m impressed. I was almost convinced you’d spend the entire night crying into your PowerPoint.”

I didn’t react.

“Completed the task?” he added, glancing at me now.

“Yes,” I replied simply.

I crossed the room and placed the tablet on his desk. He didn’t take it right away. He just leaned back, elbows resting on the armrests, and let his gaze settle on me.

I knew he saw it. The redness in my eyes. The way my jaw was clenched to keep it together. The lingering humiliation still clings to my skin like a second layer.

He was enjoying it.

Like the sight of me breaking somehow tasted better than any success he could claim for himself.

“Let’s see what you’ve got,” he finally said.

He pulled the tablet closer and started flipping through the slides. The glow of the screen illuminated his face—sharp jawline, intense brows, unreadable eyes.

The first few slides went by in silence. He gave nothing away.

I stood still, hands behind my back, nails digging into my palm.

Then, around slide twelve, I noticed it.

His finger hovered over the screen for just a second longer than usual. His expression twitched—only slightly.

He noticed something. Something he didn’t expect.

But instead of commenting, he kept going.

By the final slide, his posture had shifted. His jaw had tensed.

I watched him—waiting.

“ Any thoughts?” I asked quietly.

He looked up at me, his expression unreadable.

Then, slowly, a different kind of smirk curved his lips—one that didn’t match what I knew he was thinking.

“There’s a typo here,” he said coolly, tapping the screen.

I stepped forward. “Where?”

He pointed to a word I’d reviewed three times. “Right here. See? It should be ‘its,’ not ‘it’s.’”

“That’s not incorrect,” I said calmly. “It depends on the sentence—”

“It’s sloppy,” he cut in, eyes not leaving mine. “And the third slide? That color palette is hideous. Makes the data look cheap.”

“That’s the company’s official template.”

“Then the company needs a new designer,” he replied. “Also, this transition? Distracting. Feels like a teenager made it.”

I bit the inside of my cheek. “It’s the default animation—”

“You’re defending mediocrity now?” he said, his voice a little sharper. “You had hours. I expected better.”

He slid the tablet across the desk toward me, the motion sharp and final.

“Fix it. By morning.”

My hand trembled slightly as I picked it up, but I kept my expression still. He wasn’t going to get another flinch out of me.

But Rowan’s eyes narrowed as he fully looked at me. “What’s this?”

I stiffened. “What’s what?”

He didn’t answer.

Instead, he stood up slowly, circling the desk like a storm preparing to break. Before I could move, his hand shot out and caught my wrist—not painfully, but firmly enough that I knew there was no room to resist.

“Mr. Blackwood—what are you—”

“Come,” he said.

And just like that, he was dragging me across the office.

I stumbled behind him, trying to keep up, trying to understand—until he pushed open the sleek glass door to the private washroom and pulled me inside.

The scent of crisp cologne and sterile tiles hit me first.

Then the door closed behind us with a soft, echoing thud.

Before I could protest again, Rowan stepped behind me and turned me toward the mirror above the sink.

“Look,” he ordered.

I frowned, confused, but my eyes slowly rose to the reflection—and then I saw it.

A faint shadow along my cheekbone.

Barely there, almost hidden beneath concealer and the harsh white light overhead. But clear enough to anyone paying attention.

Clear enough for him.

The events of last night came crashing back like broken glass—

I thought the bruise was not visible after I applied the foundation. How is it---I washed my face. Shit. I shouldn't have done that. The mark wasn't visible much but was visible enough for Rowan to notice it.

“How did that happen, Mia Bella?” he asked, voice softer now—but no less dangerous.

I turned to him slowly. He was standing close. Too close. His eyes fixed on the bruise. Jaw clenched. Shoulders stiff.

“It’s none of your business, Mr. Blackwood,” I said, steady as I could manage.

His mouth twitched into something that resembled a smile—but it didn’t touch his eyes.

“Answer what I asked.”

"Why do you care huh?"

"I don't care"

“I already told you—” I began.

But I didn’t get to finish.

In one fluid motion, Rowan stepped forward, planting one hand on either side of the sink, caging me in between his arms. The cold marble pressed into my back as his body loomed over mine.

His presence was suffocating.

My breath caught in my throat.

His scent—clean, masculine, expensive—wrapped around me like silk and smoke. My heart pounded, thudding against my ribs as his gaze bore into mine.

I refused to look away.

I was hyper-aware of everything—the steady rise and fall of his chest, the tension humming through his arms, the way his lips parted like he was fighting the urge to say something he shouldn't.

And in that silence, I saw something flicker across his face but I wasn't sure what to name it.

His ice-blue eyes were darker now, the storm inside them rising to the surface.

I swallowed, suddenly unsure of whether I was trapped or protected.

My voice came out in a whisper and breathy which I didn't expected. “You’re in my space.”

“You walked into mine first,” he said just as quietly, gaze dropping briefly to my lips before lifting again.

The air between us thickened. My lips parted so does his...

But then—

The sharp trill of the office landline cut through the silence like a slap.

Reality snapped back around us like a whip.

He blinked, jaw tensing, and then stepped away.

I exhaled—finally. My lungs felt like they’d been wrung out. I straightened up, brushing a stray hair from my cheek, pretending I wasn’t two seconds away from shaking.

Rowan didn’t say a word as he turned to leave, but just before stepping out of the washroom, he paused in the doorway.

“I don’t care what happened to your face,” he said coolly, still not looking back. “Just don’t use it as an excuse to start slacking. I don’t tolerate fragile.” and then he was gone.

"Sure, Boss" I muttered through the gritted teeth, hands curled into fists at my sides.

God, I hated him.