Chapter 5 _The Unforgotten Touch

Mira pov

The elevator doors slid shut behind me, sealing me into a silence that felt heavier than the one I'd left. My reflection stared back from the polished brass—dark eyes, lips still swollen, hair a mess I hadn't bothered to fix.

I looked like someone who'd been thoroughly wrecked.

And he'd looked at me like I was a stranger.

I pressed the lobby button. The car began its descent, and I let my forehead rest against the cool metal wall. My thighs were still slick. My skin still carried his scent—cedar, leather, salt. My body remembered every touch, every word, every calculated pause.

Don't touch anything in my office.

The words replayed in my head, clipped and cold, as I stepped into the marble lobby. The concierge didn't look up. The city swallowed me the moment I pushed through the revolving doors.

I walked.

I didn't know where I was going. The streets blurred past—suits with briefcases, tourists with maps, a street vendor selling roasted nuts whose smell turned my stomach. My feet carried me by memory, past the diner where I worked the breakfast shift, past the bus stop I took to the hospital, past the narrow alley behind the catering hall where I'd once cried into a stack of dirty plates.

He doesn't know who I am.

No. That wasn't right. He chose not to know. He'd seen my face, my body, my name on the clipboard I'd been clutching. And he'd decided I wasn't worth remembering.

The anger came slowly, creeping up my spine like heat from a fire I hadn't noticed was lit. By the time I reached my apartment—a studio with a futon and a window that faced a brick wall—I was shaking.

I locked the door. Dropped my bag. Sat on the edge of the futon and stared at the crack running across the ceiling.

You came here to forget, and I have no intention of letting you.

His voice. Soft. Intimate. Whispered against my skin in the dark.

I pressed the heels of my palms into my eyes until I saw stars.

---

The next three days passed in a blur of coffee and exhaustion.

Breakfast shift at the diner started at five. I poured coffee, wiped tables, smiled at customers whose faces I didn't register. By noon, my feet ached and my uniform smelled like bacon grease. I changed in the back, caught the bus to the hospital, and sat with my mother until visiting hours ended.

She was thinner than last week. The chemo had stolen her appetite, her hair, the sharpness in her eyes that used to cut right through me. She smiled when I walked in, but it cost her something.

"Sweetheart," she said, her voice a dry whisper. "You look tired."

"I'm fine, Mom."

"Liar."

I squeezed her hand. Her fingers were bird-bones wrapped in paper skin. "I got a new job. Cleaning. It pays well."

"Another one?"

"This one's different. It's—" I stopped. How did I explain the penthouse? The marble floors? The man who'd taken me apart and then looked through me like I was glass? "It's good money. Really good."

She closed her eyes. "You work too hard."

"I know."

"No." Her grip tightened, surprisingly strong. "I mean it, Mira. You work so hard you forget to live. And I can't—" Her voice cracked. "I can't watch you burn yourself out for me."

I didn't have an answer. So I sat there, holding her hand, until the nurse came to shoo me out.

---

The cleaning agency called the next morning.

"Mira? I've got a request for a repeat at the Blackwood penthouse. The client specifically asked for you."

My stomach dropped. "Blackwood?"

"Elias Blackwood. The billionaire. He's the one who requested the deep clean last week. Said he was impressed with your work. You available Thursday?"

I stared at the peeling linoleum of my kitchen floor.

He remembered my work. He didn't remember me.

"Sure," I said. "Thursday's fine."

---

Thursday came too fast.

I took the bus to the Financial District. Wore the same thrifted blazer, pressed four times. Rode the private elevator to the forty-eighth floor with my heart hammering against my ribs.

The door was unlocked.

I stepped inside. The penthouse was empty—or seemed empty, until I heard the shower running in the master suite. Steam curled from the cracked bathroom door. I could smell his soap, that same cedar and something darker.

I walked to the kitchen. The list was on the counter, written in the same clipped handwriting I remembered.

Kitchen: counters, appliances, inside cabinets. Living room: dust all surfaces, vacuum. Do not touch the bar. Do not enter the office.

The shower stopped.

I busied myself with the cabinets. Opened them, wiped them down, tried not to think about the fact that I was alone in his space, that my hands were touching the same surfaces his hands touched. The counters. The fridge handle. The faucet.

I heard him before I saw him.

Footsteps. Bare feet on hardwood. The soft rustle of fabric.

"You're early."

I turned.

He stood in the doorway of the kitchen, wearing nothing but low-slung gray sweatpants. His hair was wet, dripping onto his shoulders. Water traced a path down his chest, over the ridges of his stomach, disappearing beneath the waistband.

My mouth went dry.

"Agency said nine," I managed.

"It's eight forty-seven." He didn't smile. Didn't blink. Just watched me with those storm-gray eyes, unreadable and cold. "I don't like people in my space before I'm ready."

"I can wait."

"You're here now." He stepped closer. Not aggressively. Just a few paces, closing the distance between us until I could smell the soap on his skin. "Finish the kitchen. Then do the living room. I'll be in my office."

He walked past me. His shoulder brushed mine—barely a touch, barely a graze—but my entire body lit up like a live wire.

He didn't look back.

I stood there, clutching a damp sponge, my breath coming too fast.

He doesn't remember me.

Or he does. And he's playing a game I don't understand.

I turned back to the cabinets. My hands shook as I wiped them down, trying to focus on the task, trying to ignore the ache between my legs and the anger burning in my chest.

By the time I finished the kitchen, I had a plan.

I walked to his office. The door was closed. I knocked.

"Come in."

I pushed it open.

He sat behind a massive desk, laptop open, glasses perched on his nose. He looked different with them—softer, almost scholarly. He didn't look up.

"The living room's next," I said.

"Then do it."

"I have a question first."

His fingers stopped typing. Slowly, he lifted his gaze. Those gray eyes met mine, and for a fraction of a second, I saw something flicker—recognition? Interest?—before it disappeared behind a wall of ice.

"Ask."

I held his stare. "Did you know it was me? When the agency sent me here?"

The silence stretched. The clock on his desk ticked. The city hummed beyond the windows.

He leaned back in his chair, studying me with an expression I couldn't read.

"Yes," he said. "I knew."