Page 16 of His Vow

The energy on the floor shifted late in the afternoon. Thea's voice drifted down the corridor — warm, tired, laughing. Through the glass wall, I watched her cross toward Declan's office. She wore a navy coat, with her dark curls loose, and a canvas bag over her arm. She looked like a woman who'd been running since dawn.

Declan met her in the hallway. He kissed her forehead. She leaned into him — eyes closing, bag slipping down her arm — for two seconds. Then she straightened, pushed her hair back, and became herself again.

"Lena cried for four minutes when I left," she said. "Then she grabbed the nanny's necklace and forgot I existed. So that's humbling."

Declan took her bag. "She gets the attention span from you."

"She gets the stubbornness from you."

Julian appeared. "Thea. Finally. Leave him. I'm more fun."

She laughed, shaking her head. "You're more fun and less reliable. I have a child."

Julian pressed his hand over his heart. "Wounded. Deeply wounded." He turned to Declan. "Your woman is brutal."

"That's why I keep her." Declan was grinning. His arm found the small of Thea's back. She leaned into the touch without thinking.

I watched from my desk as they circled each other — Julian drawing her laughter, Thea's hand lingering on Declan's forearm mid-conversation. A sudden warmth flooded the corridor, like a sealed room's window finally cracked open.

Declan had someone who walked into his office at 5:00 p.m. and took him home. I had a counter, a legal brief, and a plate set for one.

I checked my phone under the desk. Nothing.

Good.

Thea stopped at my door on her way out. She leaned against the frame, coat buttoned, bag on her shoulder. Her dark eyes moved over my face.

"Nolan, you look like you haven't slept."

"I slept."

"You look like that was a lie." She held my gaze, direct and kind, with no strategy in it. I could see her deciding whether to push, but she didn't. "Good night, Nolan."

"Good night, Thea."

She walked down the corridor. Declan followed, his hand on her back. The elevator closed. The floor went quiet.

Julian left twenty minutes later. He rapped his knuckles on my doorframe. "Don't stay too late, Reeves. The building gets weird after midnight."

"I'll manage."

"That's what worries me." He disappeared.

The cleaning crew came and went. The corridor lights dimmed. The vacuum sounds faded. The floor was empty.

I rolled my sleeves. The Alderton file spread open under the desk lamp, so I worked through the management restructuring in silence. The pen moved, the pages turned, and the building creaked and settled around me.

My phone sat on the desk, face up, beside the pen and the coffee I'd let go cold. The screen was dark. It had been dark all day.

Three days. The patience held. It always held.

The elevator chimed.

I looked up. It was past 9:00 p.m. The cleaning crew was long gone. No one came to this floor at this hour. My pen stopped on the page.

Footsteps echoed — quick and sharp. The staccato of heels on marble, not the measured pace of someone who belonged here. The rhythm was fast and purposeful, the walk of a person who'd made a decision in the lobby and was carrying its momentum down the hall before she could change her mind.

The footsteps grew louder and closer, passed Julian's dark office and the conference room, then stopped.