Lyla's POV
I sit at my desk pretending to focus on my screen. In reality, I’m watching people hang a giant silver banner that says GOODBYE OLD YEAR! but the “D” in GOODBYE keeps falling off, turning it into GOO BYE. Honestly, it feels appropriate for the way my life is going.
The whole office looks like it overdosed on caffeine and confetti. Everywhere I turn, someone is stringing up lights, blowing up balloons, or arguing about which playlist screams “New Year’s Eve corporate fun” without sounding like a bad wedding DJ.
“Stop frowning,” Hazel says, sliding into the chair beside mine with a bounce of glossy hair and cinnamon perfume. “Your face is going to stick that way.”
I didn’t hear her walk up. Hazel always moves like she’s floating, light and confident, smiling at everyone like she owns the place.
“I’m not frowning,” I lie.
“You’re absolutely frowning.” She nudges my arm. “This party is supposed to be fun, Lyla. Fun. You remember what that is, right?”
“Vaguely.”
She snorts. “Then tonight, we revive the concept. You’re going to relax, eat, drink, socialize, and dance. Pretend you’re not drowning in deadlines.”
“And wedding plans,” I add.
Her smile tightens for a split second… so fast I almost miss it. But I notice.
Hazel smiles too much for me not to see the slip.
“Well,” she says lightly, “you deserve a night off from all that too.”
She tucks a strand of her honey-brown hair behind her ear. I stare at her for a moment, searching for… something. Maybe reassurance. Maybe the friend she was before things started feeling weird between us recently.
“Hazel,” I begin, “can I ask…”
A sharp voice cuts through the hum of the office.
“Anderson.”
I freeze.
Of course… Alexander.
He stands at the end of the aisle of cubicles… black suit, sleeves rolled up, expression sharp enough to cut glass.
The worst part? The second his eyes land on me, my whole body reacts like I just got plugged into an outlet.
“Can I see you for a moment?” he says.
Hazel wiggles her eyebrows at me. “Ooh, your scary boss beckons.”
“Please shut up,” I whisper.
“I can’t. It’s a medical condition.”
I shoot her a look before walking toward him. He moves aside to let me pass into his office. I step inside, arms crossed for self-preservation.
“You need something?” I ask.
He closes the door. “The proposal draft.”
“It’s on your desk. I sent the digital copy too.”
He nods but doesn’t look away from me. For a moment it feels like he’s studying me, like he notices the tiny tremor in my hands or the way I can’t quite lift my chin today.
“You look tired,” he says quietly.
“I’m fine.”
“You’re lying.”
My breath hitches. “You’re imagining things.”
He steps closer… then stops himself, jaw clenching faintly. “Just… pace yourself tonight. Don’t take on extra tasks.”
“It’s a party, Mr. Sterling. Not a project.”
“That’s debatable.”
I almost smile. Almost.
But I can’t let myself settle into the strange comfort of his concern. Not when I’m already slipping.
“I’ll be fine,” I repeat and walk out before he can reply.
~
By six, the office transforms into something unrecognizable: dim lights, shimmering decorations, a huge catering table, and a DJ booth in the corner.
People are laughing, clinking glasses, and dancing near their cubicles like it’s the best night of their lives.
Hazel appears again, holding two glasses of champagne.
“One for you,” she says.
“I’m not sure…”
“You’re drinking it,” she insists. “Doctor’s orders.”
“Since when are you a doctor?”
“Since you became impossible to babysit.” She bumps her glass against mine. “Cheers, bride-to-be.”
Something lurches in my chest.
Bride-to-be.
Some days those words feel like a warm hug. But today they feel like a weight.
We clink lightly and drink.
As I swallow, Hazel leans against me. “Just… have fun tonight, Lyla. Don’t overthink everything. Don’t run yourself into the ground. Just be here.”
Her voice is soft. Too soft.
I look at her, wondering suddenly, violently, what she would look like if she were hiding something.
She smiles at me again, perfectly and effortlessly. I ignore the sinking feeling in my stomach.
~
As the night deepens, laughter gets louder, music gets stronger, and I drift through the room with polite smiles and meaningless conversations.
Ryan texts me once:
`Hope the party’s fun. Don’t stay too late.`
No heart.
No “miss you.”
Just a schedule reminder.
Hazel hooks her arm through mine and pulls me toward the break area. “Secret Santa’s starting!”
“Great,” I mutter. “Corporate bonding.”
“Stop being grumpy,” she laughs.
But my chest feels tight.
I could feel something coming.
I don’t know what exactly, but the air feels heavy with it.
And as people gather around the table piled with wrapped gifts, I scan the room instinctively.
My pulse jumps as my eyes land on Alexander.
He is here, leaning against the wall, one hand in his pocket, looking like he owns every molecule of oxygen.
He’s not smiling, nor is he mingling. He’s just watching the room… watching the employees… watching…
Me.
I turn away quickly.
Tonight, I’m avoiding him.
Tonight, I need to breathe.
“Lyla,” Hazel says, pressing a gift bag into my hands, “this is yours.”
I stare at it.
It’s small and light, wrapped in matte black paper with a red ribbon.
My stomach drops.
I glance at Hazel.
She shrugs. “Open it!”
My breath stops as I lift the tissue paper.
Inside is… lingerie.
Not just lingerie. It's expensive, delicate, red lace lingerie.
A cold wave of confusion slams into me so hard I actually step back.
“What the hell…” I whisper.
My hands tremble. I shove the tissue paper deeper, as if hiding it makes it less real.
Hazel laughs lightly. “Ooh, someone thinks you’re spicy!”
“I… I don’t… this can’t…”
“Who’s your Secret Santa?” she asks.
“I don’t know,” I choke out.
But someone does.
Someone very specific.
Slowly… too slowly… I sense a presence behind me. Then suddenly, a hand grabs me, yanking me into a dark, enclosed space.
I could feel the air shift. The tiny hairs on my arms rise.
Then a warm breath hits the side of my neck.
“Bunny,” a deep voice murmurs, “put on my New Year’s gift.”
My heart slams into my ribs. I spin around too fast.
It’s him.
Alexander!.
Standing close enough that I can see shadows in his eyes.
Close enough that I can smell the faint cedar and winter spice of his cologne.
“A… Alexander…” My voice breaks.
His gaze lowers to the gift bag in my hands. He smirks, slow and dangerous, like he enjoys the way I’m falling apart.
“Fits you,” he says quietly.
My entire body floods with heat… panic, humiliation, anger, and fear, all tangled into one unstoppable rush.
“I… I don’t… This isn’t funny,” I stammer.
“I wasn’t joking.”
That’s it.
That’s the final crack.
I shake my head and shove past him, heart pounding so loud it swallows the music.
“I have to… I need…” I can’t even form words.
I flee.
I hear footsteps behind me, heavy, controlled, and familiar.
Alexander is following.
My lungs tighten as I move faster down the hall, practically sprinting. I reach the staircase and grip the railing.
For a moment… just one… there’s silence.
Then I hear him stop behind me.
I don’t turn around.
I can’t.
If I do, I’ll break open completely.
His voice is low and strained, nothing like the confident whisper from seconds ago.
“Go,” he says. “Just… go home.”
I squeeze my eyes shut.
He doesn’t move.
He doesn’t come closer.
And somehow, that hurts more than everything else.
I walk down the stairs, legs shaking, heart in my throat.
Behind me, I hear nothing but the muffled echo of the party continuing… and the sound of Alexander letting me go.
