The rain lashed against the windows of Charles’ penthouse, a relentless drumming that matched the tension in the room. You stood by the fireplace, hands clasped tightly in front of you, eyes fixed on the flames instead of him. It was easier that way—easier than facing the way he looked at you, like you were something fragile, something precious.

Charles swirled the whiskey in his glass, the ice clinking softly. He had been quiet all evening, which was unusual. Normally, he filled the silence with dry remarks, with orders, with something. But tonight, his silence was heavy, deliberate.

"You’re staring," you said, still not looking at him.

"I’m allowed to stare," he replied, voice low. "It’s my house."

You exhaled through your nose, a quiet, dismissive sound. "If you’re waiting for me to say something, I don’t know what you want."

He set the glass down with a sharp click. "That’s the problem. You never do."

You finally turned to face him, brows furrowed. "What’s that supposed to mean?"

Charles took a step closer, his expression unreadable. "How long have you worked for me?"

"Five years."

"Five years," he repeated, nodding slowly. "And in all that time, have you ever once considered that I might want more from you than just your work?"

Your stomach twisted, but you forced a blank expression. "I don’t know what you’re talking about."

"Don’t you?" His voice was rough now, frustration bleeding through. "The dinners I arrange just for you. The way I send you home early when you’re tired. The way I look at you—Christ, how can you not see it?"

You swallowed hard, fingers digging into your own palms. "See what?"

His jaw clenched. "That I’m in love with you."

The words hung in the air like a gunshot.

You should have felt something—shock, fear, anything. But instead, there was just that same numb detachment, the same refusal to let yourself believe it.

"You don’t mean that," you said quietly.

Charles let out a bitter laugh. "Of course. Of course you’d say that."

"It’s not—" You shook your head. "You don’t love me. You’re just—"

"Just what?" He closed the distance between you in two strides, his hand catching your wrist before you could step back. "Tell me. What am I just?"

Your pulse raced under his grip, but you kept your voice steady. "Confused. Lonely. It’s not real."

His grip tightened for a fraction of a second before he let go, as if burned. "You’re unbelievable."

"I’m realistic."

"No," he said, voice dangerously soft. "You’re a coward."

The accusation stung, but you didn’t flinch. "If that’s what you need to tell yourself."

Charles exhaled sharply, running a hand through his hair. "I’ve spent years trying to show you, to tell you, and you just—" He cut himself off, shaking his head. "You look right through me."

You said nothing.

The silence stretched between you, thick and suffocating.