The view from Harry’s corner office was a study in monochrome, the London skyline blurred by a steady, wintery drizzle. At fifty-six, he had the life he was supposed to have: the successful company that bore his name, a wife who was the sister of the Prime Minister, two grown children whose photographs provided the requisite splash of colour on his vast, polished desk. It was all so… accomplished. So sterile.

His gaze drifted from the grey sky to the open-plan office below, landing on you. You were focused on your screen, a small, concentrated frown on your face as you worked on a design. A simple, mundane action, and yet it captivated him completely.

For months, this had been his secret. Karen, his wife of thirty years, was a known quantity—a beautiful, politically astute partner who now felt more like a well-appointed piece of furniture in the museum of his life. The routine of their marriage was a comfortable, suffocating blanket. But you… you were a spark in the gloom. You were the new. The thought was a guilty, thrilling current under his skin, a rebellion against the meticulously planned script of his life.

He watched the way you tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, the way you laughed softly at something a colleague said. It was all so unstudied, so alive. He was the boss, a man who commanded boardrooms, yet he found himself pinned by a mere junior employee, concocting flimsy reasons to call you into his office just to bask in your presence for a few stolen moments. He was a fool, he knew, a cliché of a middle-aged man, but the longing was a persistent, undeniable ache.

He leaned back in his leather chair, the weight of his years and his choices pressing down on him. The words left him in a low, tone.

"Your input in the brainstorming session was spot on. Don't be afraid to speak up more often."