Chapter 43 Zero Feelings
I didn't see Elena again for two days.
The office moved on like nothing had happened - meetings, deals, late emails filled with polite urgency. But something in me had finally gone still.
For the first time in months, I wasn't chasing her shadow. I wasn't trying to understand her silences or decode her smiles. I was just... done.
And that realization was its own kind of peace.
We had a joint project due in a week - a multi-million contract that demanded both our signatures and our time. The board wanted us to handle it personally, which meant endless late nights, shared conference rooms, and the one thing I'd been avoiding most: proximity.
By Thursday evening, the others had left. The city glowed through the windows - gold bleeding into deep blue, skyscrapers humming against the night.
Elena sat across the table, sleeves rolled up, hair messy from hours of work. She'd kicked off her heels hours ago and was scrolling through documents on her laptop, muttering under her breath.
"Dammit," she said softly, frowning at the screen.
I didn't look up. "Language, Miss Grant."
She glanced at me, eyes narrowing slightly. "Since when do you care about that?"
"Since you started saying it every three minutes."
A beat of silence, then a small laugh escaped her - quiet but genuine. "You're impossible."
"Efficient," I corrected. "There's a difference."
She smiled faintly, shaking her head. "You used to be more fun to work with, you know."
"Maybe you used to be less distracting."
Her hand froze on the keyboard. She looked up, something flickering in her eyes - surprise, maybe a little guilt. Then she smiled again, softer this time. "Touché."
I turned back to my laptop, pretending to focus. But the truth was, I wasn't angry anymore. I was just tired.
Of her. Of us. Of everything that used to feel like love but had turned into noise.
We worked in silence for another hour, the only sound the soft hum of the AC and the tapping of keys. Every now and then, she'd stretch, sigh, or mumble something sarcastic under her breath, as if testing how much space she still occupied in my patience.
Eventually, she spoke again. "How's your assistant holding up with all this chaos?"
I exhaled through my nose. "She's not. I might have to hire someone new soon."
Her brows rose. "You? Hiring someone? You hate interviews."
"I hate incompetence more."
She grinned. "That bad?"
"She filed last week's proposal under personal expenses."
Elena burst out laughing - genuinely laughing - and for a moment, the sound filled the room like it used to. Easy. Light. Uncomplicated.
It almost made me smile. Almost.
"You'll figure it out," she said when she caught her breath. "You always do."
"Maybe," I murmured. "Or maybe I'm done fixing things that don't want to be fixed."
Her expression shifted - the amusement fading into something quieter. "Are we still talking about your assistant?"
"Maybe," I said again, eyes still on my screen.
Silence followed. Not awkward, not cold - just still. The kind that says more than words ever could.
She stood after a while, walking to the coffee machine by the corner. "You want one?" she asked.
"I'm fine."
"Suit yourself." She poured her coffee, then leaned against the counter, watching me. "You really don't want to talk, do you?"
"About what?"
"Us."
"There's nothing left to talk about."
Her lips curved faintly. "You always say that when there's too much to say."
I finally looked up. "No, Elena. I used to. Now I just mean it."
She didn't answer right away. Just stared, then nodded once, slowly. "So that's it?"
"That's peace," I said. "You should try it."
She looked down at her cup, swirling it absently. "You make it sound easy."
"It's not. But it's better than pretending the fire isn't already out."
Her laugh was quiet, hollow. "You're really done, huh?"
"Completely."
For a moment, I thought she might argue - throw some sharp line, some emotional grenade to test the ruins. But instead, she just nodded again, almost to herself.
Then she walked back to the table, setting her cup down beside her files. "Fine," she said. "Then let's finish this."
We did.
Hours passed without a single argument. We worked like professionals again - clean, precise, detached. By the time the clock hit midnight, the project draft was complete.
I closed my laptop and leaned back, rubbing my temples. "That's the last revision."
She exhaled, exhausted but smiling. "Finally. I thought we'd be here till sunrise."
"We almost were."
She stretched, letting out a soft groan. "Remind me next time to bring snacks."
"You plan on doing this again?"
She gave a small shrug. "Maybe. If you don't fire me first."
"I can't. You own half the company."
"True." Her smile turned wistful. "Guess we're stuck with each other."
"Professionally," I said.
"Of course."
Another silence.
Outside, rain had started again, streaking the windows with silver lines. She looked at it, her expression distant.
"You ever wonder what would've happened if we'd just stayed friends?" she asked suddenly.
I thought about it - the long nights, the laughter, the warmth before it all went wrong. Then I shook my head. "No. I think we were always meant to break something."
She smiled faintly, eyes still on the rain. "Maybe."
When she finally gathered her things, it was nearly one in the morning. I walked her to the elevator out of habit, neither of us saying much.
As the doors opened, she turned to me. "You really seem... different."
"I am."
"In a good way?"
"In a real way."
She looked like she wanted to say something else but didn't. Instead, she smiled - a quiet, almost proud kind of smile - and stepped inside.
"Goodnight, Damian."
"Goodnight, Elena."
The doors slid shut.
And for the first time in a long time, I didn't feel angry. Or jealous. Or hollow.
Just free.
When I returned to my office, I stood by the window for a while, watching the city. The reflection that looked back wasn't the same man who used to wait for her calls or read into every word she said.
That man was gone.
In his place stood someone quieter. Stronger. Ready to move forward - not for her, not even away from her, but for himself.
I smiled faintly, turned off the lights, and left.
The sound of the rain followed me all the way to the car.
And for once, it didn't remind me of her at all.