Cracks in the Armor

Travis’s POV

Some people hide behind walls.

Sophia Moreau?

She is the wall.

Cold. Untouchable. The kind of woman who sharpens her words like weapons and wears power as effortlessly as most people wear their own skin.

But today?

Today, there was a crack.

I saw it the second I walked into her office.

For a fraction of a second—before she masked it, before she straightened her shoulders and narrowed those stormy eyes at me—something was off.

She was tired. No, more than tired.

She looked haunted.

And I wanted to know why.

I hadn't planned on seeing her again so soon.

After our last conversation, I had every intention of letting her stew a little. Letting the intrigue settle, letting her wonder why I was here, what I wanted.

But then, for reasons I didn’t entirely understand myself, I found myself back in my car, headed toward Moreau Dynamics.

A man like me didn’t do coincidences.

So what the hell was I doing here?

Chasing a woman who had already made it clear she wanted nothing to do with me?

Or maybe—just maybe—chasing the first woman in a long time who made me feel like the game didn’t matter.

The sleek, modern building stood tall against the Manhattan skyline, a fortress of glass and steel. I stepped out of my car, adjusting my cuffs as I strode through the doors, my presence earning quick glances and hushed murmurs from the staff.

They weren’t used to unannounced visitors.

Especially me.

The receptionist’s eyes widened slightly when she saw me, but she recovered quickly. “Mr. Cole,” she greeted. “Miss Moreau is in her office, but she’s currently—”

“She’ll see me,” I said smoothly, not giving her the chance to argue.

She hesitated, then nodded, pressing a button on her desk.

“Go ahead.”

Of course I would.

When I stepped into Sophia’s office, she was standing by the window, her back to me, arms crossed as she stared out over the city.

For the first time, she didn’t immediately acknowledge my presence.

And that was when I knew something was wrong.

Sophia Moreau was always aware. She was always one step ahead, always prepared for whatever was coming.

But right now?

She looked lost.

Only for a second.

Then she turned, and just like that, the mask slipped into place. Her posture straightened, her expression smoothed out, and by the time her eyes met mine, she was back to being the woman who had told me to stay out of her way.

I smirked. “Miss me already?”

Her lips curved slightly, but there was no real amusement in it. “And here I thought you had important things to do.”

I stepped closer, watching her carefully.

She didn’t move away.

Interesting.

“I do,” I said casually, “but somehow, I keep ending up here.”

Her gaze flickered—something unreadable there for just a second. “That sounds like a you problem.”

I chuckled, slipping my hands into my pockets. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s a you problem.”

She scoffed. “You’re delusional.”

I studied her, letting the silence stretch between us. Most people were uncomfortable with silence. They filled it with empty words, with nervous laughter, with something.

Sophia?

She let it settle.

But not today.

Today, she was off-balance.

“You didn’t sleep,” I said. It wasn’t a question.

Her jaw tightened. “What?”

I tilted my head slightly, watching her reaction. “You didn’t sleep last night.”

She blinked. Once. Twice. Then she let out a soft exhale, turning back toward the window. “And you think that’s any of your business because…?”

I took another step forward, drawn in despite myself.

She was wearing a fitted navy dress, the kind that made it impossible not to notice the lines of her body. Her arms were crossed, fingers gripping her own skin, as if grounding herself.

I had never seen her like this before.

Something deep in my chest tightened.

I didn’t like it.

Not because it made her weak. No, Sophia Moreau was anything but weak.

But because it meant something had gotten to her.

And I suddenly needed to know what.

“You don’t strike me as the type to lose sleep over much,” I said, my voice quieter now.

She inhaled sharply, but when she turned to face me again, she was composed.

“I don’t.”

Lie.

I watched her for a long moment, then slowly walked to the chair across from her desk and sank into it like I had all the time in the world.

She narrowed her eyes. “What are you doing?”

“Sticking around.”

She let out a dry laugh. “Why?”

Because I don’t like the way you looked when you thought no one was watching.

Because something about you gets under my skin, and I can’t figure out why.

Because I don’t want to leave.

Instead, I just smirked. “Because I can.”

She rolled her eyes, turning on her heel and striding back to her desk with that same poised, effortless grace she always carried. But in that movement—so controlled, so precise—I caught it.

A flicker.

Her fingers brushed against her thigh, the briefest, most unconscious gesture.

A nervous habit.

Or something else entirely.

My gaze followed the motion, curious. Something about it felt... intentional. Like a grounding mechanism, a touchstone. A gesture so practiced she probably didn’t even realize she was doing it.

I leaned back in my chair, studying her as she settled behind her desk.

Something had thrown her off today. Something had made her mask slip, just for a second.

I didn’t know what it was.

I didn’t know why she looked like she hadn’t slept, why there was a shadow behind her sharp, unrelenting gaze.

But what I did know?

I wanted to find out.