The First Spark

Chapter 8: The First Spark

The penthouse was quiet, but my mind was anything but.

I couldn’t stop thinking about Adrian—the way he had looked at me earlier that day, the faint softness in his eyes that he tried so hard to hide. I hated that I noticed it. Hated that it made my heart skip a beat.

Dinner had been the usual carefully orchestrated performance. Polite smiles, minimal conversation, flawless appearances. But something had shifted between us. A tension I couldn’t ignore had settled into the spaces where words failed, lingering like smoke.

After dinner, I retreated to my room, determined to read, to distract myself. But the silence of the penthouse made it impossible. My thoughts kept circling back to him.

I was startled by the soft knock on my door.

“Amara?” It was his voice, low and steady.

I hesitated. “Yes?”

He stepped inside, holding a small box in his hands. “Claire mentioned you like early mornings,” he said, setting it on my desk. “Thought you might enjoy this before breakfast.”

Curiosity prickled at me. I opened the box carefully. Inside were fresh pastries, delicate and perfectly arranged, and a small note written in neat, precise handwriting:

“For the quiet moments you deserve. —A”

My heart skipped. The gesture was simple, almost mundane—but it carried weight. Someone had thought of me. Someone had paid attention.

Before I could respond, he was already at the door.

“Enjoy,” he said quietly, then left without another word.

I sank into my chair, holding the note like it was the most precious thing in the world.

It was the first spark. The first crack in the wall I had built around my heart.

The next day, at the office, everything felt different. I found myself glancing at him more often than I should, noting the way he interacted with others, the subtle gestures that revealed a side of him no one else saw.

And then, in a moment that surprised both of us, our hands brushed as he handed me a folder. A simple, accidental touch—but it sent an electric jolt through me.

“I… I’m sorry,” I stammered, pulling back quickly.

“Nothing to apologize for,” he said, his eyes lingering on mine just a second too long before he looked away.

The rest of the day passed in a haze. Every interaction, every glance, seemed charged with something unspoken. I tried to focus on my work, to remind myself that this was a contract—nothing more. But the spark had been lit, and I could feel it growing.

That evening, we returned to the penthouse. Adrian poured himself a drink, his gaze wandering to me briefly before he spoke.

“You’re learning quickly,” he said. “Better than I expected.”

“Thank you,” I replied softly.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he took a sip from his glass and looked out over the city, his expression unreadable.

I wanted to ask him about it. About us. About the way he looked at me, the subtle gestures that betrayed his carefully constructed walls.

But I didn’t.

Instead, I let the silence stretch between us, knowing that some things weren’t ready to be spoken aloud.

Later, lying in bed, I traced the outline of the note he had left me, my fingers trembling slightly. I hated that it made me feel hope. Hated that it made me feel something real in a world built on contracts and appearances.

And yet, I couldn’t stop thinking about him.

About the way his walls were starting to crack.

About the dangerous, thrilling possibility that maybe… just maybe… he could see me too.