The glass doors of the Sterling & Co. building reflected a version of myself I had spent three months meticulously sculpting. Crisp white blouse tucked into a pencil skirt, hair pulled back into a severe, professional knot, heels high enough to click with authority but low enough to survive a ten-hour shift.

I stood on the pavement, the morning city noise—a cacophony of taxis and rushed footsteps—fading into a dull hum behind the pounding of my own pulse.

ONE. *Inhale.* The cold morning air filled my lungs, sharp and grounding.

TWO. *Exhale.* I smoothed a non-existent crease on my skirt. This was it. The design firm that everyone said was impossible to get into without a referral from God himself.

THREE. *Move.*

"New beginnings," I whispered to the glass reflection, watching the woman in the mirror straighten her spine. "You earned this, June."

I pushed through the revolving doors, the rush of conditioned air hitting me like a physical barrier, sealing the past outside.

***

"The Creative Director is… particular."

The HR manager, a woman whose smile seemed practiced in a mirror, clicked her pen nervously as we walked down the corridor. Her heels made a rhythmic *clack-clack-clack* that echoed in the stark, concrete-and-glass hallway.

"He doesn't like small talk. He values efficiency. And he’s—" she paused, searching for the right word, "—intense."

"I can handle intensity," I said. It wasn't a lie. I had survived design school critiques that left grown men weeping in the stairwell.

"Good. He's in Conference Room B."

She stopped in front of a frosted glass door. My reflection was blurry here, ghostly.

"Good luck, June."

She didn't wait for me to answer. She turned and walked away, leaving me alone with the door handle.

I gripped the cold metal. My palm was damp. *Professional. Capable. Adult.*

I turned the handle.

The heavy door swung open silently. The room was bathed in the clinical white light of the projector, dust motes dancing in the beam. At the far end of the long mahogany table, a man sat with his back to the window, the city skyline framing his silhouette like a jagged crown.

He was reading a file—*my* file.

His sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing forearms corded with muscle, the white fabric straining against the breadth of his shoulders. He didn't look up immediately. He let the silence stretch, a tactic designed to unsettle, to dominate the space before a word was even spoken.

"Sir?" I started, my voice steady, practiced.

The man stopped turning the page. His fingers—long, elegant, familiar—stilled.

Then, he looked up.

The air left the room.

It wasn't a gradual realization. It was a collision. A car crash at full speed.

The eyes were darker than I remembered, stripped of the teenage warmth they once held, replaced by a glint of polished steel. The jawline was sharper, covered in the shadow of a day's stubble. The boy who used to wear hoodies and carry a sketchbook was gone. In his place sat a predator in a tailored suit.

*Theo.*

Theo Harrison.

My knees unlocked. I grabbed the back of the nearest chair, the leather creaking under my grip.

*Impossible.*

The word ricocheted inside my skull. He was in London. He was supposed to be in London, winning awards, living a life that didn't include running a design firm in this city. A life that didn't include me.

Eight years. It had been eight years since I ran away without saying goodbye. Eight years since I buried the memory of him under layers of work and ambition.

And now, he was staring at me.

Those eyes, dark and heavy, didn't just look at me; they dismantled me. His gaze started at my eyes, dropped to my mouth, then slid down the column of my throat to the pulse point that was currently betraying me, fluttering like a trapped moth.

He knew.

No. He *couldn't* know. I was different now. I wasn't the bespectacled girl who hid behind lockers. I was June Walker. I was an adult.

The silence stretched, tight as a violin string about to snap.

Slowly, deliberately, Theo closed the file. The sound of the paper hitting the wood was deafening.

He stood up.

He was taller than I remembered. Or maybe the room had just shrunk. He walked around the table, his movements fluid, predatory. He didn't stop at a polite distance. He kept coming until the scent of him—sandalwood, stale coffee, and something distinctly *male*—invaded my personal space.

He stopped a foot away. Close enough for me to see the individual lashes framing those devastating eyes. Close enough to feel the heat radiating from his chest.

My breath hitched. I ordered my lungs to work, but they disobeyed.

He tilted his head slightly, his gaze locking onto mine with a weight that felt physical.

"The new hire?"

His voice was lower, rougher. It vibrated in the air between us, scraping against my nerves.

Panic clawed at my throat. *Run,* my instinct screamed. *Turn around and run.*

But I dug my nails into my palms until the sharp pain grounded me. I forced my chin up. I met his gaze, even though my insides were liquefying.

"Yes," I managed. My voice sounded thin, but it didn't break. "I'm June Walker. I look forward to working with you."

The lie tasted like ash. *I look forward to escaping you.*

Theo didn't blink. He just watched me, studying the micro-expressions on my face like I was a design flaw he needed to fix. His gaze dropped to my lips again, lingering there for a second too long, before dragging back up to my eyes.

A corner of his mouth twitched.

It wasn't a smile. It was a smirk. A sharp, knowing, dangerous thing.

"June," he said.

He tasted the name. He rolled the vowel on his tongue, savoring it, making it sound intimate and mocking all at once.

"Welcome to the team... *June*."

Every hair on my arms stood up. The way he said it—heavy, layered with subtext—sent a shiver racing down my spine.

He knew.

He absolutely knew.

"That will be all," he dismissed, turning his back on me to look out the window, effectively discarding me.

I stood there for a second, my heart hammering against my ribs like a fist. I was lightheaded.

"Thank you," I whispered.

I turned and walked to the door, my legs feeling like they were made of wood. I pushed it open and stepped out into the hallway, the heavy door clicking shut behind me.

I leaned against the wall, the cool plaster seeping through my blouse. My hand went to my chest, clutching the fabric over my heart.

*He recognized me.*

The thought was a cold stone dropping into my stomach.

*No,* I reasoned, desperate. *I've changed. My hair, my style, my name... okay, not my name. But there are a thousand June Walkers. He didn't say anything about high school. He didn't ask why I left.*

maybe he didn't care enough to remember.

That thought stung more than the fear.

Inside the conference room, Theo Harrison watched the reflection of the closing door in the window glass. He reached up, loosening his tie with a sharp tug, his eyes narrowing as he traced the ghost of her exit.

"June," he murmured to the empty room, the name dark and heavy on his lips. "Found you."

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