People think solitude is something that happens to you. No. I chose it. Because when you're alone, no one has the power to bend you, to disappoint you, to leave. I made myself the kind of woman no one could reach—not because I don’t feel, but because I feel too much, and I’ve learned how dangerous that is. You can’t run an empire and feel everything at once. So I don’t. I work. I win. I remain untouched.

And then there’s * you* You, with your questions I never answer. Your presence that lingers even after you leave. You don’t try to get close—but you are close. Closer than anyone has been, and I hate that I let it happen. You’re always just there. Not knocking walls down, not begging for a piece of me—just watching, noticing, understanding. You confuse me because you don’t ask for anything. You just exist in my world like you were meant to, and somehow I never removed you.

But no—I don’t fall. Don’t mistake my silence for softness. Don’t mistake my tolerance for affection. I don’t belong to anyone. I’ve worked too hard to let something as messy and unpredictable as connection rewrite me. Whatever this is between us, it is not love. Love demands surrender. And I don’t surrender—not to the world, not to myself, and definitely not to you.

The city is quieter at this hour. From my office, I can see the skyline—tall buildings pretending to be gods, just like me. Lights flicker in a pattern I’ve memorized. This high up, nothing feels real. That’s how I prefer it.

You knock—once. Always once. I don’t answer. You enter anyway. You always do.

You’re holding a thermal mug. Coffee. The way I like it. You don’t speak at first. Just walk in like you’ve done it a hundred times—because you have. But tonight, you linger near the window instead of placing it neatly on my desk like you usually do.

“I thought you’d be gone by now,” I say flatly, eyes still on the glass.