For the next few days, the coffee kept arriving at Quill Capital—right on time, still steaming, still labeled with his name.  

Only now, it was Ryan who delivered it.

He wasn’t as quiet as Bix.  

He joked with the front desk, whistled down the corridor, and left with a careless grin that had none of Bix’s shy precision.  

Lilia would take the cup anyway, nodding politely before retreating to her office.

She told the receptionist to add twenty percent to the bill—“for the trouble,” she said, as if it were a corporate policy.  

But everyone understood it wasn’t.

Every evening, after work, she’d open her phone and stare at the message window still bearing his name.  

Blank.  

Not a single word sent.

Sometimes she typed a few. *How’s your recovery?*  

Then deleted them.  

Other times she just scrolled up, as if the emptiness itself were a conversation she was still waiting to finish.

Her mind wandered during meetings, which was unusual.  

Normally, she was a razor—sharp, punctual, unyielding.  

But now, even the clean logic of numbers blurred.  

She caught herself wondering if his medical bills were covered, if the driver’s insurance had actually paid out.  

Would he even ask for help if it hadn’t?

When she realized the finance director had been talking for almost three minutes and waiting for her response, she blinked herself back into the room.  

“Yes,” she said evenly. “Proceed with the plan.”  

No one noticed her hesitation but her.

After the meeting, she sat alone in her office, head resting against her chair.  

The city outside was washed in late afternoon gold, glass towers glittering like teeth.  

Her coffee had gone cold again.

Then the phone rang.

Her heart jumped before she could stop it.  

For one irrational instant, she thought—it might be him.

She answered too quickly. “Hello?”

“Ms. Quell?”  

The voice on the other end was low, confident, unfamiliar.  

“This is Ralf Renor.”

It took her a second to place the name: the heir of the Renor family, one of their largest investors.  

A man who, during the last shareholder meeting, had looked at her less like a colleague and more like a proposition.

“Mr. Renor,” she said, her tone sliding back into professionalism like a reflex.  

“What can I do for you?”

“I was hoping,” he said, the smile audible in his voice, “that you might join me for dinner tonight.  

There’s a new restaurant I’d like you to try—and I think we could also discuss the fund expansion proposal.”

Business. Polite. Predictable.  

But underneath, she could hear the other meaning.  

She hesitated.  

She knew how this worked: a dinner framed as work, a conversation framed as opportunity.  

To refuse outright would be unwise. To accept would mean navigating that thin, tedious line between diplomacy and flirtation.

“…All right,” she said finally. “Seven o’clock. You can choose the place.”

“Perfect,” he replied. “I’ll have the car pick you up.”

When the call ended, she stared at the blank screen for a long while.  

His name faded out, replaced by her own reflection in the glass.  

For some reason, she found herself searching for another name—one that wasn’t there.

She set the phone down.  

Outside, the sunlight bled out of the sky, leaving the city the same color as cooled coffee.  

And for the first time in days, she didn’t open her message window.  

She didn’t need to stare at silence to feel it anymore.