Elle's POV
"I've arranged for Mike to drive you to the airport," Ms. Cross says before I can reach the elevator from her doorway.
I turn, my hand still hovering over the call button. "That's not necessary, Ms. Cross."
"I wasn't asking for your permission."
The words cut through the air between us. I study her face for a moment, calculating the cost of arguing versus the energy I need to conserve for whatever waits in Vermont.
"Thank you," I say finally, and the elevator doors slide open.
She follows me inside, which seems to surprise us both.
"You don't need to escort me to the car," I say, pressing the lobby button.
"I'm aware of what I need to do."
She keeps her eyes forward, tracking our descent in the reflection of the polished steel doors.
"I'm also aware that you haven't eaten anything since yesterday, your hands are shaking, and you're running on approximately three hours of sleep."
My reflection stiffens before I can stop it. She noticed. Four years of careful composure, and she noticed the cracks forming in real time.
"I didn't realize my physical condition was part of my performance review," I manage.
"It's not a review, it's an observation."
She turns to face me, and the weight of her attention feels different than it ever has before.
My skin prickles with awareness as her gaze travels over my face, and I have to fight the urge to lean into her scrutiny like a plant starving for light.
Her dark eyes trace the shadows I tried to conceal with makeup, the pallor I couldn't quite hide beneath powder.
"You prepared contingencies for my schedule while processing the news of your grandfather's death, which means you prioritized my convenience over your own wellbeing."
"That's my job," I say quietly.
"Your job is to be my assistant, not my martyr."
The elevator settles into the lobby with a soft chime, and I step out first, grateful for the excuse to break eye contact.
She matches my pace as we cross the marble floor toward the waiting car.
Mike stands beside the black sedan, already opening the rear door when he sees us approaching.
"Ms. Cross, I can take a cab from here," I try again, grasping for any distance I can find. "You have the Morrison meeting in two hours, and I know you prefer to review materials in your office rather than—"
"Get in the car, Elle."
I hesitate, then slide into the back seat with whatever composure I have left.
She follows before I can protest further, settling into the leather beside me with enough distance to maintain propriety and close enough that I can feel the warmth radiating from her presence.
The space between us feels charged, electric—barely twelve inches of leather that my skin registers like a live wire.
Mike pulls away from the curb, and the city begins to blur past the tinted windows.
Her perfume reaches me first—something subtle and expensive that I've memorized without meaning to.
For several minutes, neither of us speaks.
I stare out my window, my hands folded neatly in my lap, pressing my fingers together to still the tremor I can't seem to control.
Every breath I take draws her closer into my lungs, and I'm acutely aware of the heat of her thigh just inches from mine, separated by fabric and air and four years of professional distance I've never dared to cross.
"How long was he ill?" she asks.
"A few months." I keep my voice steady, rehearsed—the same answer I've given to everyone who asked. "He didn't want treatment, and my father respected his wishes."
"And you?"
I finally look at her, and I see clear as day that she's asking about more than his illness. She's asking about me.
"I respected his autonomy, even when I disagreed with his choices," I say.
Pain flickers across her expression—a flicker too quick to hold before her mask slides back into place.
"You don't talk about your family often," she says flatly. "In four years, I've learned almost nothing about them."
Because you can't. The truth presses against my ribs. Because if you knew who I really was, everything would shatter.
"My family is complicated, Ms. Cross," I say, each word carefully measured. "I apologize if that's been frustrating."
Her jaw tightens almost imperceptibly, and I realize my deflection has hurt her in a way that makes my chest ache with guilt.
"I wasn't asking for an apology," she says, her voice neutral. "I was asking if you're alright."
"I'm fine."
"You're lying."
I exhale slowly, and the composure I've been clutching finally cracks just enough to let the exhaustion through. "I'm managing."
"Managing isn't the same as fine."
"No," I agree quietly. "But it's the best I can offer right now."
The car turns onto the airport access road, and I feel the remaining minutes slipping away like sand through desperate fingers.
"You told me to call you Vivian this morning," I say suddenly, still looking out the window. "In your office, when you told me to expense everything."
"I'm aware of what I said."
"You've never done that before." I turn to face her, searching for warmth. "Four years, and you've never once offered me your first name."
"The circumstances were unusual."
"Were they?" I hold her gaze, and the question escapes before I can stop it. "Or were you just being kind, and kindness feels unusual to you?"
Loneliness flashes in her dark eyes—raw and exposed before she shutters it away.
The car suddenly feels smaller. My heart pounds against my ribs so loudly I'm certain she must hear it.
I watch her throat work around words she doesn't say, and the silence stretches between us like a held breath.
"Take care of yourself in Vermont," she says finally, and the distance in her voice feels like a door closing.
The car pulls to a stop at the departure terminal. Mike opens my door, and I gather my bag—a small overnight case that feels too heavy.
I step onto the curb and turn back, one hand on the door frame. "I'll be back Thursday morning, as promised."
"I know you will."
I wait, hoping for tenderness. A goodbye that means more than professional courtesy. An acknowledgment that this moment matters to her too.
But she stays silent, and I realize I've been hoping for affection that was never mine to have.
I nod once, accepting her silence the way I accept everything else.
Then I close the door and walk toward the terminal entrance without looking back.
Don't turn around, I tell myself. Don't look for something that isn't there.
The automatic doors swallow me into the crowd, and the morning light disappears behind me.
I keep walking, my overnight bag pressed against my side, the tremor in my hands finally winning.
The cold airport air hits my skin, and I realize how warm I'd been in that car, how her presence had seeped into my bones like sunlight.
Somewhere behind me, a black sedan pulls away from the curb.
And I let myself feel, just for a moment, how empty the air feels without her in it.