Chapter 4: Story 1

I find him in my chair.

It’s 11:34 PM on a Tuesday. The 47th floor is a graveyard of dark monitors and empty coffee cups. I came back because I forgot the Meridian deck on my desk and Chicago’s CMO emails at midnight like a sociopath.

But Dominic is at my desk. In my chair. Asleep.

Or not asleep. He’s got his head tipped back, eyes closed, one hand still curled around a pen like he lost a fight mid-sentence. His other hand rests on a legal pad full of numbers I recognize — Meridian’s projected Q4 ad spend. My ad spend.

He looks… human. The armor is off. No suit jacket. Top two buttons of his shirt undone. There’s a crease between his brows even in sleep, like his brain won’t give him the night off.

I should leave. I should back out and pretend I never saw Dominic look anything less than invincible.

Instead, I set my bag down quietly. I can see the blue light of his laptop from here. He’s been answering emails. At 11:30 PM. On a Tuesday. Don’t stay late on Fridays, he told me. Hypocrite.

I move closer to grab my deck. That’s when I see it.

My coat. Or rather, his coat. The wool one he draped over me last week. It’s folded over the back of my chair, and he’s sitting in front of it like he forgot it was there.

He doesn’t move when I pick up the tablet. He doesn’t move when I inhale.

He does move when I whisper, “You’re a terrible boss.”

His eyes open. No grogginess. No confusion. Just instant, terrifying clarity. Like he was never asleep at all. Just waiting.

“Ms. Reyes,” he says, voice rough from disuse. “You’re here late.”

“You’re in my chair.”

He looks down, like he’s surprised to find himself in it. He stands in one smooth motion. No stretching, no apology. He just cedes the space.

“I was reviewing the Chicago numbers,” he says. “You built a good model.”

“Thanks.” I slide into the seat. It’s warm. From him. I hate that I notice. “You should go home, Mr. Cole. The campaign will still be here tomorrow.”

“So will the problems.” He picks up his coat. Doesn’t put it on. Just holds it. “Why are you here?”

“Forgot my deck. Why are you here?”

He considers lying. I see it. The calculation. Then he doesn’t.

“Couldn’t sleep.”

Four years of Ethan would’ve meant a 20-minute monologue about stress and how hard it is to be him. Dominic gives me two words and a lifetime.

I don’t know what to do with that. So I do what I always do: work.

I open the deck. “We’re still bleeding users after day three. The ‘off the clock’ feature isn’t sticky enough. We need a social hook.”

He’s behind me now. I can feel him reading over my shoulder. He doesn’t ask permission. Dominic doesn’t ask permission to exist in a room.

“What if we make it competitive?” I murmur, mostly to myself. “Leaderboards for who logged off earliest. ‘Meridian Time Champions.’ People love winning, even if the prize is just… peace.”

He’s quiet for a long time. Then: “That’s cynical.”

“It’s accurate.”

Another beat. “Do it.”

I turn. He’s too close. The office is dark except for my monitor, and it paints his face in blue and shadow. I can see the stubble now, the faint line of a scar through his eyebrow I noticed on the roof. Up close, he doesn’t look 45. He looks tired and sharp and real.

“You should sleep,” I say again. It comes out softer than I intend.

“You should too,” he says.

“I will. After this.”

He studies me. Not my face. Me. Like I’m that balance sheet again and he’s finding the error.

“Why marketing?” he asks.

He asked me that on day one. He asked me again on the roof. He’s asking me now, at 11:40 PM, like he didn’t hear me the first two times.

Or like he did, and he knows I didn’t tell him everything.

I look away. “I told you. My dad—”

“Your dad left,” he cuts in. “That’s why you’re good at reading people. It’s not why you chose marketing. You could’ve been a lawyer. A therapist. A cop. You chose to sell things. Why?”

My throat goes dry. No one’s ever called me out like that. Not even Sienna.

“Because,” I say, and it’s the truth I don’t put on resumes, “if I can make someone want something they don’t need, then I’m in control. And if I’m in control, I don’t get left.”

The silence after is heavy. Not judgmental. Just… heavy.

Dominic sets his coat on the back of my chair. Not on me this time. Just… near me.

“Control is an illusion, Ms. Reyes,” he says quietly. “The only thing you control is how you respond when it breaks.”

He leaves. No goodnight. No dramatic exit. He just walks away, and the elevator dings five seconds later.

I sit in his warmth for twenty minutes before I trust my legs to work.

---

Thursday. 2:17 PM.

The Meridian leaderboard idea works. Too well. Beta users are posting screenshots of their “Meridian Time” like it’s a badge of honor. Chicago’s CMO calls it “the first app that made logging off aspirational.”

I should be celebrating. Instead, I’m in Dominic’s office because Marcus told me to “bring the numbers.”

Dominic’s office is exactly what you’d expect: minimal, terrifying, and expensive. No personal photos. Just that warehouse blueprint and a window that owns half of Manhattan.

He doesn’t look up when I enter. “Close the door.”

I do. My heart does something stupid.

“Day-three retention is up 22%,” I say, setting the tablet down. “Ad spend is down 8%. We’re under budget and over-performing.”

He finally looks at me. “You’re not sleeping.”

It’s not a question. There are circles under my eyes that concealer gave up on.

“Neither are you,” I shoot back.

“I’m the CEO. It’s in the job description.” His eyes go back to the numbers. “You’re a lead. Act like one. Delegate.”

“I am delegating. I delegated sleep to never.”

That earns me the ghost of a reaction. The corner of his mouth, again. Not a smile. A potential smile.

“Sit,” he says.

I sit.

He pushes a coffee across the desk. It’s not the 3 PM black one. It’s a latte. With oat milk.

I stare at it. “I don’t—”

“You drank one at 2 AM on Tuesday,” he says. “You left the cup on your desk. Oat milk. Two sugars. I’m observant, Ms. Reyes.”

My brain short-circuits. He noticed. He noticed my coffee order. He noticed and remembered.

“Thank you,” I say, because what else do you say when Dominic orders your coffee?

He nods, like that’s that. “Now. Tell me why the 18-24 demo isn’t converting. The real reason. Not the slide deck version.”

So I do. We talk for an hour. Not CEO to employee. Not mark to con artist. Just… two people who understand that data is a language and most people are illiterate.

At some point, I kick off my heels under the desk. At another point, he rolls his sleeves up.

It’s the most normal hour I’ve had since Ethan.

And that’s the problem.

When I leave, Marcus is waiting outside.

“He doesn’t do this,” Marcus says quietly.

“Do what?”

“Meetings that run long. Coffee. Noticing.”

I keep walking. “Maybe he should start.”

“Maybe you should remember why you’re here,” Marcus says. Not unkind. Just… warning.

I don’t answer. Because for the first time, I’m not sure I do remember.

---

Friday. 8:49 PM.

The office is empty. I’m not. I’m rewriting the Meridian onboarding flow because the current one “lacks emotional resonance,” according to Chicago.

“Emotional resonance” is corporate for “make them feel something.” I’m good at that. I just don’t like doing it to myself.

“Your posture is terrible.”

I don’t jump this time. I’m getting used to him appearing like a very expensive ghost.

Dominic is in the doorway, jacket off, tie loose. He looks like he’s been in back-to-back board meetings. He looks like he lost one of them.

“You’re one to talk,” I say. “You sleep in desk chairs.”

“I was thinking.”

“You were snoring.”

That almost-smile again. He walks in, stops at my desk. “You’re still here.”

“You said not to stay late on Fridays,” I point out. “You never said anything about Fridays in general.”

“Loophole.”

“Learned from the best.”

He looks at my screen. “You’re changing the flow.”

“Chicago wants ‘emotional resonance.’” I make air quotes. “So I’m adding a screen. After they set their ‘off the clock’ time. It says: ‘Someone will be here when you get back.’”

He’s quiet.

“Too much?” I ask.

“No,” he says. “It’s human.”

He says human like it’s a rare commodity. Like he’s been mining for it and I just handed him a vein.

He drags a chair over. Not his. A chair from the conference table. He sets it next to mine. Not across. Next to.

“What are you doing?” I ask.

“Helping.”

“With what?”

“Emotional resonance.”

He doesn’t touch the keyboard. He just points. “Here. Users don’t need more features. They need permission. Change the copy. Not ‘Someone will be here.’ Change it to ‘We’ll keep the lights on.’”

I type it. We’ll keep the lights on.

It’s better. It’s devastating.

“Why do you know that?” I ask before I can stop myself.

He leans back. The chair creaks. “Because ten years ago, my wife died. And I came back to an office with no lights on. I built this place so that wouldn’t happen again.”

The air leaves the room.

I’ve read the articles. Tragic loss. Private funeral. No comment. I didn’t think he’d ever say it.

“I’m sorry,” I say. It’s inadequate. Everything is inadequate.

“Don’t be,” he says. “It was a long time ago.”

It doesn’t look like it was a long time ago. It looks like yesterday.

We work for another hour. In silence, mostly. It’s not awkward. It’s… companionable. The kind of silence you can only have with someone who doesn’t need you to fill it.

At 10 PM, he stands. “Go home, Alina.”

It’s the first time he’s used my first name.

I stand too. “You too, Dominic.”

His eyes flick to mine. Just for a second.

“Goodnight,” he says.

“Goodnight.”

He leaves his coat again. On the back of my chair.

I don’t touch it.

But I don’t give it back either.

---

Later. My Apartment. 1:06 AM.

Sienna: You up?

Me: Unfortunately.

Sienna: Talk to me. You’ve been weird for a week.

I look at Dominic’s coat. I hung it on my door. I told myself it was because I didn’t want it wrinkled.

I type: He told me about his wife.

Three dots. Then: Oh. Alina. No.

Me: I know.

Sienna: Do you? Because this is how it starts. He gives you a sad story, you give him your trust, and then you’re the other woman in a revenge plot you started.

Me: It’s not like that.

Sienna: It’s exactly like that. You’re forgetting the plan.

I look at the coat. I look at the Meridian campaign on my laptop. We’ll keep the lights on.

I text back: What if the plan changed?

It takes her five minutes to respond.

Sienna: Then you better be damn sure he’s not the one changing you.

I turn off my phone.

I don’t sleep.

Because Dominic just told me why he built an empire.

And I’m starting to understand that I didn’t come here to destroy it.

I came here because I wanted someone to keep the lights on for me, too.