It was my third week at the company.

The day I finally got my first real project.

I'd worked nights on that proposal, chasing one ridiculous hope—that maybe, just maybe, it would finally make someone up there notice me.

Turns out, it did.

Just not the way I expected.

"The intern did this?"

A deep voice cut through the silence in the conference room. I looked up—

And froze.

He stood at the far end of the table, tall and sharp in a gray suit, fingers drumming against the polished wood like a ticking bomb.

Edric Blanton. The youngest partner in the firm. The one they called the Ice King.

His eyes met mine—cold, unreadable, merciless.

"Yes," I said, trying to sound steady.

He flipped through the report, fast but precise. Then stopped.

A frown. A pause.

He looked up, and his next word hit like a blade.

"Rewrite."

One word. Cold. Final.

I blinked. "What... exactly needs fixing?"

He didn't hesitate. "Everything."

Heat rushed to my cheeks. Across the room, I caught the smirks. The subtle coughs. The invisible knives.I took a deep breath and swallowed my embarrassment.

I nodded stiffly. "Understood. I'll revise it right away."

As I walked out, the whispers followed me like shadows.

"Yikes. First review, and it's Blanton?"

"I heard he once rejected a manager's proposal ten times. Ruthless."

They weren't wrong.

At thirty, Edric Blanton was already a legend in the firm—brilliant, brutal, and completely untouchable.

But what they didn't know was—

That single word from him didn't destroy me.

It ignited me.

That night, I stayed late until 2 a.m.

Alone in the dark, fingers flying across the keyboard, perfecting every formula, every chart, every word.

When I finally hit send, I included just one line:

"Thanks for the feedback. I hope this version meets your expectations."

Then I collapsed face-first onto my desk.

By morning, the sun was peeking through the windows.

My laptop screen blinked with a new email.

I clicked it open, heart pounding.

One word.

"Approved."

And just like that—I knew he'd seen me.

Edric was the kind of guy you could never quite figure out.

After that whole "rewrite" incident, I started paying way more attention to his habits—what he liked and what he didn't.

For example, he always wanted the key points of a report right on the first page. He was obsessive about data precision. Hated long-winded explanations. Preferred clean, simple tables that got straight to the point.

He never said anything directly—no praise, no feedback—but every time my proposals made it through his review, that silence felt like a quiet stamp of approval.

One night, I was stuck at the office late, working on a data model for a big project.

The place was dead quiet. Just me, my laptop, and a screen full of error messages. Nothing was working.

I ran my hands through my hair, completely drained and ready to give up.

"That's where you messed up."

I nearly jumped out of my chair. Edric was suddenly standing right next to my desk.

"Mr. Blanton?" I blurted, startled.

What was he doing here so late?

"You didn't filter out the invalid values in this data set."

He leaned in, his finger pointing precisely at one line of numbers on my screen.

I froze for a second, then quickly checked the formula, and sure enough, I'd missed it.

I felt embarrassed but mostly grateful. "How did you even spot that?"

He didn't answer. Just gave me a look, calm as ever, then pulled up a chair and sat down next to me.

Without another word, he started going through the model with me.

He stayed for two whole hours, helping me revise it.

He didn't say much—just brief comments here and there—but every sentence he dropped cut right through the noise and made everything click.

When the model finally ran successfully, I looked up, eyes shining, and saw he'd fallen asleep.

He was leaning back in his chair, brow slightly furrowed, but under the soft glow of the office lights, his sharp features looked surprisingly gentle.

For the first time, I thought—maybe he wasn't as cold and ruthless as everyone said.

The next morning, I worked up the courage to bring two coffees to his office.

He was buried in paperwork when I knocked. He looked up, his expression still cool and unreadable.

"Mr. Blanton, here's your coffee," I said, gently setting one cup on his desk. "Thanks for helping me last night."

He glanced at me and didn't refuse it. Took a sip, then said quietly, "Don't stay that late again."

I thought it was just a passing comment. But a few days later, his assistant came over and said, "Mr. Blanton asked me to remind you—no more staying past hours."

I froze. Couldn't believe it at first.

But that unexpected bit of concern planted something like a small seed. And slowly, it started to grow.

Eventually, the nonstop workload caught up with me.

One morning during a meeting, the room started spinning—and then everything went black.

When I came to, I was staring up at the blindingly white ceiling of a hospital room. I tried to move my hand and noticed I was hooked up to an IV drip.

Sitting beside the bed was someone all too familiar.

"You're awake." Edric closed the book in his hands.

His voice was calm, almost distant—but somehow, just hearing it made me feel safe.

"What happened?" I tried to sit up, but he gently pushed me back down by the shoulder.

"Don't move." His voice was still low and composed, but this time, there was something different in it—a faint, almost hidden softness.

"You had a high fever and passed out during the meeting. The doctor said you're severely overworked. Your body's been screaming at you for a while now."

My eyes stung, and I whispered, "I'm sorry for worrying you."

He frowned, visibly annoyed.

"Cecilia, your body's not a machine. If you want to keep doing this job, you need to start taking care of yourself."

At that moment, I felt like he saw right through me—my drive, my stubbornness, my quiet desperation.

When I was discharged, he personally drove me home.

On the way, while staring out the window, he suddenly said, “You know, after my first startup failed, I didn't sleep for three days straight. Eventually, I passed out right in front of a client."

I stared at him in shock.

"Back then, people were waiting for me to crash and burn. But I didn't care. Because I knew—if I failed, I could still get back up. But if my health gave out, I'd lose everything."

He turned and looked at me.

"You're the same, Cecilia," he said, his voice steady and firm.

"Don't destroy your future over something small right in front of you."

That hit me hard.

Maybe it was the way he was honest for once. Or maybe it was how he showed concern—not in words, but in that rare, unspoken gentleness.

He didn't say much after that. But somewhere along the quiet ride home, the image I had of him started to shift.

Edric was still the same guy—cold, all about results, never wasting a second. But underneath that icy exterior, there was a softness most people would never notice.

And after that day, I began to sense something subtle changing between us.

He stopped nitpicking my work.

Now and then, he'd even offer a short pointer—just enough to help me untangle a mess I'd been stuck in.

One time, the company was suddenly handed a major overseas deal. Everyone was running around like their hair was on fire.

The client was a publicly listed company in Germany, so all the reports and communication had to be done in German.

I'd taken it in college, sure—but real-world use? Zero. Still, I braced myself and put together a presentation.

When it was done, I went to Edric's office before the meeting to get his feedback. My heart was pounding—I knew full well that this Ice King wouldn't let even the smallest detail slide.

"Come in." He didn't look up from his paperwork, his tone as flat and cold as always.

I walked in and placed the presentation on his desk.

"Mr. Blanton, this is the draft I prepared. Could you take a look?"

He set down the file he'd been reviewing, flipped through my report quickly, and then looked up.

"This translation's off. You should use 'Gewinnmarge' for 'profit margin,' not 'Profitspanne'."

He went on to point out a few more translation errors I hadn't even noticed. And the way he pronounced everything—fluent, flawless—left me stunned.

"You speak German too?" I blurted out.

"It's part of the job."

He said it like it was no big deal, then turned to another page.

"And here, your logic for the data analysis is weak. Redo the chart."

Every piece of advice was sharp, to the point, and dead accurate.

At that moment, I truly understood—what set him apart wasn't just his talent but his relentless pursuit of perfection in everything he did.

After the meeting, the presentation went surprisingly smoothly. The German partners were full of praise.

I stood off to the side, listening quietly, and for the first time, I felt a sense of pride I couldn't quite explain.

Every word Edric said, every glance he gave, made it harder for me not to wonder what he was really thinking.

What kind of emotion was hiding beneath that cold, unreadable exterior?

One night after the project wrapped up, we had a rare team dinner to celebrate. Everyone was relaxed for once, clinking glasses and laughing.

Edric was there, too, but as usual, he didn't touch a drop of alcohol. He sat quietly in a corner, just watching the rest of us.

I walked over with my drink, feeling a little bold.

"Mr. Blanton, it's such a good night—are you sure you won't have just one drink?"

He looked up at me. For a split second, it almost seemed like there was a hint of a smile at the corner of his mouth.

"You all celebrate. I've still got work to do."

"But you've worked just as hard as the rest of us. You deserve a break, too," I pushed.

He didn't answer. Just stood up and said calmly, "Working hard is part of the job. But you all should head home and get some rest."

Watching him walk away suddenly struck me—he always kept his emotions buried deep, never letting anyone get close.

Something shifted between us.

There was this subtle tension—an unspoken connection we both felt but never named.

And maybe it was because of that connection that, when things started to crack, it hurt even more.

The more time I spent working with Edric, the more rumors started circulating around the office.

Every time I walked into his office, I could hear the whispers.

"Isn't Cecilia getting special treatment from Mr. Blanton?"

"Seriously, she's just an intern—how come her proposals always get approved?"

Those words hit like tiny needles. I kept telling myself to ignore them, but deep down, it still stung.

One afternoon, I overheard a few coworkers chatting in the break room.

"Ugh, look at her—an intern, acting so casual around Mr. Blanton?"

"Exactly. I mean, someone like Mr. Blanton probably prefers the quiet, go-along-with-anything kind."

My hand trembled slightly around the mug I held. I didn't go in. I turned and walked away.

As the rumors kept spreading, I started to get overly cautious, on edge all the time.

After a meeting one day, I brought some documents to Edric's office. As I got closer, I overheard his secretary talking to him in a low voice.

"There's been a lot of chatter lately about you and Ms. Cohen. It's getting noticed."

I froze, a knot forming in my chest. I knew I shouldn't be eavesdropping, but my feet wouldn't move.

"Let them talk," Edric replied, his voice as calm and distant as ever.

The secretary hesitated, then added, "Still, for the sake of your reputation, maybe it's best to keep some distance from her."

There was a brief silence.

Then I heard him say, "You're right. We should keep our distance."

Just one sentence. But it landed like a brick in the chest.

I walked away quickly, swallowing the lump in my throat.

And just like that, his attitude toward me changed.

He used to stay late with me in the office, going over reports line by line. Now, he wouldn't even glance my way.

He used to give detailed feedback. Now, all I got was a flat, "Looks fine."

That distance—cold and sudden—left me completely lost. And I couldn't bring myself to ask him why.

I didn't want to hear the answer. Didn't want to confront what I was starting to feel.

And eventually, all that tension—unspoken, building up between us—finally exploded in a project meeting.

This was a high-stakes collaboration—one of the most important deals we'd handled. I was in charge of the project's data modeling.

However, due to tight deadlines, the solution I proposed carried some risk.

During the meeting, I explained my plan in detail, along with a few backup strategies to manage the risks.

When I finished, Edric looked up and said coldly, "This isn't a solid plan. Replace it."

"But it's the one that fits the client's needs best!" I couldn't help pushing back.

"With proper risk control, it's completely doable."

"Risk control only works in theory," he said flatly.

"In the real world, we don't have the time or budget to gamble on trial and error."

"Then what do you suggest?" I asked, keeping my voice as steady as I could.

He didn't answer me.

Instead, he turned to the rest of the team and said, "Have Daniel take over this section. Redo it."

Just like that, he dismissed everything I'd worked on. They didn't even give me a chance to defend it.

I sat there stiffly, feeling like everyone in the room was silently enjoying the show.

After the meeting, I chased after him down the hallway, my heels clicking on the cold marble floor. My hands were shaking. My heart was louder than my footsteps.

"Why wouldn't you give me another chance?" I asked, voice barely steady.

He stopped mid-step, turning slowly. His expression was like stone.

"Cecilia, this isn't a place for emotional outbursts," he said coldly.

I blinked, stunned by the cold finality in his tone.

"But you know my plan was viable," I whispered, my throat tight.

"You know it was the best option. Or is this really just about... keeping your distance from me now?"

A muscle jumped in his jaw. For a second, something flickered in his eyes—guilt? Anger? Regret? I couldn't tell.

"You're overthinking it," he said flatly. Then he turned and walked away without looking back.

Just like that.

He left me standing there, alone in the hallway, with nothing but silence and the sting behind my eyes.

After that day, it was like he'd vanished—at least from my world.

He stopped staying late. Stopped offering feedback. Stopped... seeing me.

And I?

I buried myself in work like it could drown out the ache in my chest. Like pretending not to care would eventually make it true.

But people noticed.

One afternoon, Daniel Jennings leaned over and whispered, "Cecilia, weren't you and Mr. Blanton... close before? Now, he won't even look at you."

I forced a smile. "He's always been that way."

A lie. One I kept telling myself too.

That night, I stayed late again. Just me, the ghost of a man who used to linger in this office past midnight, and the sharp hum of the air conditioner.

The screen glared back at me, full of charts I couldn't even read anymore. I was drowning—but not in work.

And somewhere between the spreadsheets and the silence, it hit me.

The comfort I used to find in his quiet presence was gone.

Like a thread had snapped, and I was the only one still holding the frayed ends.

That slow, dull ache—like a needle piercing my chest again and again—never left.

I thought I had lost him.

But then...