The office was nearly empty when Lillian stepped onto the 42nd floor.
Screens glowed faintly, illuminating scattered prototypes and schematics. The quiet hum of the machines filled the space. Her heels clicked lightly against the marble.
Sebastian Wolfe was already there. Black suit slightly wrinkled, sleeves rolled up. Muscles taut beneath the fabric. Fingers drumming impatiently on the edge of his desk. Blue eyes cold and calculating.
He didn't acknowledge her at first.
"I assume you've reviewed the latest interface updates?" he asked without looking up.
"I have," she replied, setting her briefcase down. "There are a few adjustments I recommend."
He glanced at her briefly, lips tight. "Adjustments? Deadlines are not flexible, Miss Parker. I don't have time for minor tweaks."
"I'm aware, sir," she said calmly. "But if we push forward without correcting these issues, we risk a system crash during testing."
He finally looked at her fully. Expression sharp. Voice sharper. "System crash? Do you think I'm incompetent? I built this technology. I know it better than anyone."
"You built it," she agreed. "But no system is flawless."
He stepped closer. Cold, cutting. "Miss Parker, you really have a knack for pointing out problems no one asked you to find."
"I also have a knack for preventing disasters," she shot back.
He froze, jaw tightening. "Preventing disasters… sounds like babysitting. Are you here to assist the CEO or lecture him?"
"Both," she said lightly. "Depends on whether you're listening."
He stared at her for a long moment. Then said flatly, "Fine. Show me the adjustments. But make it quick. I have a meeting in three hours."
They worked side by side.
He hovered over her shoulder, criticizing every detail.
"Too much latency here," he snapped.
"That's intentional," she replied. "It balances the system load."
He leaned closer, voice cutting. "Intentional or lazy coding?"
"Neither. Smart design. Something you might want to consider before shouting at me."
He froze, expression unreadable. Then his jaw tightened.
"Watch it, Miss Parker. I don't need your attitude while I'm saving this company from collapse."
"I'm not giving attitude. I'm giving facts."
"Facts can be interpreted any way you like. That doesn't make them truth," he snapped.
She straightened her back. "Truth isn't subjective, Mr. Wolfe. And if you think it is, you'll be testing that theory on the board tonight when everything crashes."
For a beat, he stared at her. Then muttered, almost under his breath, "You're impossible."
"Flattery will get you nowhere," she replied.
Hours passed.
Her green eyes drooped slightly. Hands shook from fatigue. She had been typing, moving between screens and prototypes, calculating, correcting, explaining.
He noticed. Of course he noticed.
"Miss Parker," he said abruptly, voice cold but firm. "Go home."
She blinked. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me," he said, eyes narrowing, blue piercing hers. "You're exhausted. You have a life outside this office—your boyfriend, I assume?"
Lillian stiffened. "I… I can stay. We're close to finishing."
"No," he said sharply. "You're done for tonight. Go. I can handle the rest."
Her jaw clenched. "I don't usually take orders about leaving work from the CEO."
"You will tonight," he snapped. "Before I lose patience."
She hesitated, noticing his stance: rigid, impatient, yet oddly protective.
"Fine," she said. "Only because you're insisting."
She packed her things quickly. Blueprints, tablet, stylus. Every movement precise.
Even as she moved to leave, he continued scrutinizing the prototype.
"Why is this module still off by three percent?" he asked sharply, voice slicing through the quiet office.
"I adjusted it twice already," she replied evenly. "The variance is within tolerance. It's fine."
"Fine?" he repeated, tone incredulous. "You're saying three percent is fine? This isn't a toy, Parker. Every number matters."
"I know every number matters," she said. "Which is why I double-checked the simulation. The system will handle it."
"Double-checked? Are you implying I didn't?" His tone was mocking.
"No, sir. I'm implying you're human. Even geniuses make mistakes," she said, flat but pointed.
He stared at her for a long moment, expression unreadable. Then muttered, "Even geniuses need babysitters, I suppose."
"I'm not your babysitter," she shot back. "I'm the one keeping the system from crashing."
He snorted. "Crash. That's your favorite word, isn't it?"
"I'd say 'prevent' is my favorite," she replied, "but apparently it doesn't impress you."
She rubbed her eyes, fatigue catching up. Her fingers trembled as she adjusted the prototype again.
"Miss Parker," he said, bluntly, voice cold but slightly commanding. "Stop pretending. You're done for tonight."
"I can keep going," she said, voice low, almost pleading. "We're so close."
"No," he said sharply. "Go home. You're useless if you collapse here. You have a life. A boyfriend. Go. Now."
She froze. The words struck harder than any insult. He was still rude, still cold… but he had noticed. He had spoken, in his own harsh way, to protect her.
"I—alright," she said finally, sighing. "I'm going."
She packed the last of her things and turned toward the elevator.
He followed her gaze, arms crossed. "And make sure you actually sleep," he said, voice rough. "I don't need a sick secretary in my office tomorrow morning. Or a collapsed one."
"Noted," she said, trying not to smirk at his rare display of concern hidden in rudeness.
"Try not to overwork yourself just to prove a point," he added, voice low but cutting. "I don't care how impressive your stamina is."
Lillian raised an eyebrow. "I'm not trying to impress you, sir. I'm trying to do my job."
His jaw tightened. "Job or not, you're human. You forget that sometimes."
She paused at the elevator, looking back once more. "You've noticed," she said softly, though it sounded more like an accusation than a question.
"I notice everything that affects the work," he said sharply. "Do not mistake that for sentiment."
The elevator doors closed.
Sebastian returned to his desk, silent. Cold. Efficient. Blue eyes scanning the prototype screens as if she had never left.
And yet, somewhere behind the sharp edges, he had noticed.
Somewhere, he had acknowledged her.
Without saying it. Without softening. Without anyone else ever knowing.
For now, that was enough.