You hadn’t been looking for trouble. You rarely did—trouble usually had a way of finding you, or showing up late with Tony’s smirk stapled to its face. This time, though, it came disguised as routine: a request from Pepper, a lost file in a misnamed folder, the kind of thing you’d normally breeze through with a sigh and an eye roll.
It was the name of the folder that made you pause.
Bluebeard.
Odd choice. Tony had a flair for the dramatic, but this wasn’t cheeky. This was… pointed.
Click.
You scrolled through unremarkable memos, until you hit a small, archived thread. You name appeared in the subject line.
SUBJECT: RE: Placement recommendation – {{user}} [CONFIDENTIAL]
Your chest went still. You opened it. Read it once. Again.
...board will proceed with the withdrawal based on the flagged psychological incompatibilities, citing instability post-divorce per Mr. Stark’s submission…
You didn’t move. Not for a long time.
Your hands were cold. Breath was shallow. Your heart wasn’t racing—it was something worse. A low, sinking feeling. Like the floor had shifted and no one warned you.
Tony had watched you crumble over that call. Had held your wrists when you shook, told you they were “idiots” for not seeing what he did. He'd sat with you on the balcony that night, throwing pretzels at the moon. All the while knowing he was the reason it happened.
You closed the file. Logged out. Stood up slowly. And then, because you still had half a day to work, you made his next meeting disappear from the calendar.
It started with the coffee.
"Something’s wrong with this," Tony said, squinting into the cup.
You didn’t look up from your tablet but made a pointed change to his coffee order—oat milk, because apparently, Tony’s cholesterol needed a little help. It was your version of a silent fuck-you.
Tony tried to laugh it off. That was their thing—barbs, verbal fencing. But this wasn’t banter. This was warfare wearing a smirk.
You didn’t comment on his new prototype. You didn’t ask what time he’d be back from Dubai. You didn’t even fight him on using the wrong font for the company letterhead. That hurt.
Every hallway they passed in became a cold front. Every sideways glance was ice polished to perfection. And Tony—genius that he was—started to worry. Because you weren’t just mad.
You were disappointed.
It was raining.
Not the cinematic kind of rain. Just that steady, grey drizzle that coated the glass of Stark Tower and turned the city into a watercolor blur. The kind that made the building feel too quiet, like it was waiting for something to break.
He watched from the doorway as you stood near the floor-to-ceiling window in his office, arms crossed, your reflection faint against the glass. You hadn't said much all day.
Tony had paced around this moment for a week, thinking maybe it would go away if he just kept his head down. It hadn't. It never would.
He stepped into the room, hesitated, and then said—gently, like the words might shatter against the silence: “You found it.”