Chapter 6 Observed

• The building didn’t change.
• But everything about it felt different.
• The walls seemed taller. The ceilings too quiet. Every footstep sounded louder than it should have. And no matter how she tried to shake it, Aurelia couldn’t lose the feeling of being watched.
• Specifically—by him.
• She hadn’t seen Callum Maddox since he pulled her into his office. But his presence still clung to her skin like perfume she couldn’t wash off. The way he moved. The weight of his stare. The stillness. It was unnatural. Like he didn’t exist in the same rhythm as everyone else.
• And then the elevator opened.
• And he stepped into the room.
• Everything stopped.
• She didn’t look directly at him. She didn’t need to.
• Her body knew.
• She kept her eyes on the screen in front of her, pretending to read, pretending to breathe normally. But her spine tingled. Her skin tightened. Her entire nervous system flickered under her coat.
• Then he walked right past her desk.
• Paused.
• “Executive conference room. Five minutes. Bring the Easton file.”
• He didn’t wait for confirmation. Didn’t look at her again.
• Just gave the order.
• And walked away.
• By the time she stepped into the conference room, her palms were damp and her heart refused to settle.
• He was already there—by the windows again, silent and still like something waiting to pounce.
• She placed the file on the table with quiet fingers.
• “Easton projections,” she said, her voice more steady than she felt.
• He turned.
• Not quickly. Not dramatically.
• Just enough.
• His eyes were unreadable. Hard. Focused in a way that made her stomach twist.
• “I’ve had five different people review that file,” he said.
• “Then why give it to me?”
• “To see what you notice that they didn’t.”
• She nodded, not trusting her voice. Her skin burned beneath her coat.
• “Sit.”
• She obeyed.
• He moved to stand behind her, too close to ignore, not close enough to accuse.
• “You carry tension in your shoulders,” he said.
• “I work at a desk,” she replied, too quickly.
• “Not that kind of tension.”
• Her jaw locked.
• He watched her closely, like he was waiting for something. Like she was a screen and he was looking for the crack.
• She flipped open the folder to keep her hands busy.
• He moved again—around the table this time, arms crossed, leaning against the edge. He didn’t speak.
• She tried to focus on the data.
• But the air was thick.
• He didn’t say anything for a long stretch of time. Just watched.
• “Do you always test your employees like this?” she asked, eyes never leaving the page.
• “No.”
• “Then why me?”
• Silence.
• When he finally spoke, it was low.
• “There’s something about you I don’t like.”
• Her breath caught.
• “But I haven’t done anything wrong.”
• “That’s what bothers me.”
• Another beat.
• Another exhale she didn’t know she’d been holding.
• “I don’t trust what doesn’t add up,” he continued. “You’re good at disappearing into the background. Polished. Efficient. Quiet. You don’t fidget. You don’t react when men walk by. You don’t flirt. But you freeze every time I speak.”
• “I’m not freezing now.”
• “You’re sitting on your hands.”
• She was.
• Damn him.
• “I’m just trying to do my job,” she said softly.
• “So am I.”
• He stepped forward.
• And just like that, the oxygen shifted.
• He reached out—barely—fingertips brushing the folder beside her, close enough for his knuckles to skim hers.
• She didn’t move.
• Couldn’t.
• He looked at her the way a man might study something he didn’t believe was real. Like he was waiting for the illusion to crack.
• And when his knuckles accidentally—or not—dragged along the top of her hand, her breath caught.
• He looked down at her.
• Like he felt it, too.
• And then—just like that—he stepped away.
• Dismissed her with a nod.
• “Back to your desk.”
• No explanation.
• No tone.
• Just command.
• She left on legs that didn’t feel like hers.
• Back at her desk, her skin still buzzed. The contact was brief, but her body hadn’t forgotten.
• The strange thing wasn’t that he touched her.
• It was how her body had welcomed it.
• Like it knew him.
• Callum remained in the conference room.
• His jaw clenched. His fist tight at his side.
• He didn’t speak her name.
• Didn’t let himself think of the eyes.
• Didn’t let himself remember the woman he couldn’t talk about.
• Because remembering hurt.
• And this?
• This didn’t make any sense.
• He needed answers.
• Not ghosts.