CHAPTER SEVEN

Mira

I stood by the window, waiting.

He would drive in soon. It was almost eight, his usual time. I silently prayed he’d be sober or exhausted. I walked back to the sofa and sat on the edge, nervous, my hands fidgeting. Then I heard it—the sound of the engine as he drove into the garage. I stood immediately, rooted in place until the loud banging on the door made me move.

“Mira, Mira!” He shouted my name. That only meant one thing. He was drunk, again.

I dragged my feet to the door. I didn’t open immediately because I was scared, but the banging came again, louder this time. I braced myself. When I opened the door, his eyes were bloodshot, his breathing ragged. I stood face to face with my nightmare...

My eyes snapped open and I sat up. The night was chilling, but I was sweating from the dream. It had been so long since I dreamt of him. Francis—my toxic ex, my first relationship, the one that broke me. I was young, loved with my whole heart, and ended up shattered. Those memories were locked away, but they sometimes clawed their way out. I hated dreaming about him. It was almost three years, but the dream was vivid, like it was happening again. My alarm rang—it was six already. I climbed out of bed to prepare for work.

The café was noisy. The minute I walked in, I lost my appetite. The dream weighed on me, dragging me to the past, making it impossible to focus. I wasn’t hungry, but I needed distraction. Then I saw him. Ken.

What if the gift box had come from him? He would stop at nothing to spite me. That necklace obviously worth a lot, and an intern couldn’t dream of such. Our eyes met. I wasn’t quick to look away. He waved at me like I had been looking for him, and it soured my mood further. I turned and walked away. The sound of quick footsteps behind me made me frown, but I kept going.

“Hi Mira, why don’t you come have lunch?” Even in his quick pace, his voice was rich and smooth, and I hated it.

“Mira?” he persisted.

“Oh Ken, what is it?” I stopped. He came around, standing in front of me. His cologne hit me—manly, expensive, soothing.

“You didn’t even step in. Are you alright?”

“Are you keeping tabs on me now?” I shot him a look. He shrugged.

“Well… it’s break, and you ought to be in there. Besides, you look sad.” He was too concerned. I tried to protest, but he cut in, “I’m sorry if I said something wrong.”

“Ken… I’m fine. I don’t have an appetite.” I tried to walk away, but he held my wrist lightly.

“Are you sure? You don’t mind sharing?”

Physical touch was a no for me. He had no right to come close. I pulled my hand away, gave him a warning look, and left.

In my office, I forced my heart to calm. What just happened? Why was I flustered? It was just a light touch, I reminded myself. I wasn’t angry at him—rather at myself. At the emotions that surged through me when I felt his hand, both hard and tender, as if there was a connection. I was overthinking. He was probably just concerned. But how did he know I wasn’t happy? Did my dream this morning haunt me that much? A knock on my door broke my thoughts.

“Who’s there?”

“It’s Sarah.”

“Come in.” I forced a smile as she walked in, files in hand.

“Here, Clara said to give these to you.” She stretched them forward.

“Thanks.” I collected them and turned to my desk. But she didn’t leave—she stood like a mountain.

“Anything else?” I asked, still flipping through the papers.

“Just curious.”

I hated her tone. “About what?”

She tapped her chin theatrically, eyes rolling upward. Sarah was the fake, snitch type. I couldn’t tell if she was serious.

“About you, my dear. Everyone sees you as perfect. You see yourself as the best, and the rest of us are just here to make your light shine.” She shrugged and squinted at me.

“Excuse me?” I kept my anger in check. She was setting a trap.

“Yes, Mira. You come into your office, do your thing, get commendations, treat others like they don’t matter.” She looked at me like I was nothing, then pressed on. “You flaunt your looks, your expensive clothes, bags, jewelry… Your salary, though higher than mine, can’t afford those things. So I’ve been curious. Who’s funding your life? Someone wealthy, perhaps?”

My blood boiled, but I stayed calm.

“And… what is it with you and the boss? He favors you too much.” She smirked, pretending innocence after calling me a gold digger and Bernard’s mistress.

I leaned back deliberately, projecting confidence. My gaze rested on her, steady, until I saw her nostrils flare.

“I don’t know what you’re up to, Sarah, but let’s be clear. I don’t feel I’m on top—I am on top. Why? Because, as you said, I’m the best. As for my clothes—girl, you’re just jealous. Clear these assumptions from your head and focus on your job.” I smirked back.

Sarah’s face flushed with anger. “You’re unbelievable.” She spun around and bolted out.

“Bitch,” I muttered, smiling in satisfaction. For her to accuse me to my face meant others thought the same. I knew jealousy had shifted into hate, and more would come. That was why I desired the Vaughan training even more—a place where everyone strove to be the best. My peaceful days at Gigs were numbered.

My stomach rumbled loudly. Sarah had stirred my appetite. I headed for the café, hoping it was empty. It wasn’t—some people lingered, chatting. I ordered chicken and fries.

“Have an appetite now?” That voice again. Ken. I didn’t turn. “Glad you came back,” he continued. “Working on an empty stomach isn’t the best.”

I collected my tray and turned. His cologne hit me again. He smiled faintly, watching. I ignored him and went to a seat in the far corner by the window. Ken followed. I noticed the gadgets already on the table—his. A tab and a laptop, both sleek, expensive.

I began eating. He got busy, writing on the tablet, his other hand propping his jaw. He looked superior without trying. I watched him with every bite.

“I suggest you stop staring and focus on your meal,” he teased. I nearly choked.

“Staring at what exactly?” I shot back.

“At me,” he said simply, lifting his gaze. Even in such awkward moment the only thought that popped into my head were his eyes—grey, rare, glassy—it held amusement, and I was caught in them.

“You’re doing it again,” he said with a slight smile.

“Don’t flatter yourself.” I stabbed my chicken with my fork. He groaned, trying not to laugh.

“You seem better now.” He dropped his pen, staring intensely at me.

I felt exposed under his gaze, like he could see straight through me. “You don’t know me—we barely talk. You just got here. Why do you think you understand my mood?” I waited for his reply.

“Because your eyes speak a lot.”

My breath hitched. Was that a compliment? I had never even thought of that part of me. One more look at him and I knew he was serious. He leaned back in his chair, his eyes pulling me in like a whirlpool, refusing to leave mine.