It doesn’t matter that he has stopped smoking. I noticed. Of course I noticed. He doesn’t smell of cigarettes anymore when he gets close. Just cedar and a different kind of smoke and that wild scent that makes my head spin.
It doesn’t matter that no one makes me do coffee runs anymore. That the menial tasks have stopped. That people actually treat my work with respect now. I know it’s all his doing, but it doesn’t matter.
None of it matters because we’re family. I can’t feel this way about Darius.
I won’t.
I push away from the sink and head back into my bedroom.Getting dressed takes longer than it should. My fingers fumble with buttons. My dress feels too heavy against my skin.
By the time I’m ready, I’m exhausted. And the day hasn’t even started yet.
Three business dayshave passed since the conference room incident.
Three days of watchful distance and furtive glances across the office.
I can feel Darius’s gaze on me throughout the day. When I’m typing reports. When I’m on the phone with other packs. When I’m walking to the break room or the restroom.
But he doesn’t approach. Doesn’t corner me in hallways or conference rooms. Keeps his distance as if we’ve struck some unspoken agreement.
It should make me feel relieved. Instead, a hollowness opens up in my chest every time I catch him turning away.
I stay late most nights now. Partly because the work is genuinely interesting, partly because I don’t want to go home. Don’t want to face my mother’s cold stares or Alaric’s uncomfortable attempts at conversation.
Darius stays late, too. I know because I can see the light in his office still on when everyone else has left. But he never comes out. Never seeks me out.
By Thursday evening, the pattern is set. The office empties around seven. Sarah waves goodbye, followed by the analysts. Julian stops by my desk with that friendly smile.
“Heading out?” he asks.
“Not yet. Want to finish this report.”
“Don’t work too hard.” He lingers for a moment, like he wants to say something else, then thinks better of it. “Have a good night,Violet.”
“You too.”
He leaves, and then it’s just me and the hum of computers and the distant sound of cleaning staff in other departments.
I work for another hour, lost in territorial agreements and alliance protocols.
Then, a knock on my desk makes me look up. One of the building staff stands there with a bag from the Italian place two blocks over. The good one that’s always packed.
“Delivery for you, miss.”
Just like the last three nights. I don’t bother asking who sent it anymore. “Thank you.”
He sets down the bag and leaves.
I stare at it for a long moment. Steam rises from the top, carrying the scent of garlic and tomatoes and fresh bread.
My stomach growls.
The first night I tried to refuse it, to send it back, but I was so hungry I couldn’t think straight. And the food was there. Right there. Still warm.
So, I ate it. And the next night. And the night after that.
I never see Darius place the orders. Never catch him arranging the deliveries. But I know it’s him. Just like I know he’s still in his office right now, waiting to see if I’ll eat this, too.
I pull the containers out. Pasta carbonara. Caesar salad. Breadsticks. Even a small tiramisu for dessert.
