With one hand buried in his pocket and the other gripping his suitcase, Chris stared blankly at the floor ahead, his eyes dull and distant. He shuffled toward his office, each step heavy—as if his shoes were made of stone.
When Isa saw him, she gasped, dropping the files in her hands as she stood abruptly. She bowed her head. "Good morning, sir."
Chris stopped and slowly turned to face her. His vacant eyes rested on her, unblinking—as if her greeting hadn't even registered.
When he didn't respond, Isa hesitated. She glanced up, then quickly looked down under the weight of his stare. Her fingers trembled as she fidgeted with her collar, biting her bottom lip.
"What's wrong with him?" she muttered, rolling her eyes with a nervous tug at her sleeve. She couldn't bring herself to look up again.
Chris finally turned away, pausing at the doorknob to his office.
Isa squinted, tilting her head slightly to peek at his back. His shoulders sagged, as though carrying the weight of a mountain.
"Is he okay?" she whispered, releasing a heavy sigh as the door clicked shut behind him.
She sank into her chair and exhaled, stealing one last glance at the office door. Her heart wouldn't settle.
"I have to show him now." Isa closed her laptop and hugged it to her chest. She shut her eyes and drew in a deep breath. "Help me, Lord," she whispered, steadying herself before fixing her gaze on the door.
Chris didn't lift his head when the door creaked open. His eyes were locked on his notebook—no writing, no movement, just staring. His gaze, unfocused.
In his mind, Nolan's teary eyes haunted him, filled with betrayal. The boy's clenched fists, trembling lips—it all came rushing back like a storm. Chris's chest tightened as his grip on the notebook stiffened.
He had seen the boy laugh the night before. That morning, when Nolan descended the stairs, his innocent smile reminded Chris of a forbidden face—one he had buried deep.
But when Nolan looked up at him with those tear-filled eyes, it was as if she was standing there. Her gaze. Her pain.
"Sir?" Isa's voice cut through the memory. "I have the emails and schedule ready."
Chris reached for his pen and absent mindedly scribbled on the page.
Steven.
The name echoed in his head, sharp and small. His spine stiffened. He remembered her eyes—bright and sparkling, just like Nolan's.
"I'm here for you. Nothing will happen to me."
His breath hitched at the memory, and his eyes widened when he looked down. He stared at the sketch. His throat tightened. He couldn't even say her name in his mind.
"Sir?"
Chris blinked as Isa's voice cracked slightly. He pressed his lips together, swallowed hard, and shut the notebook. He tossed it and the pen onto the desk, curling his palms in his lap, pinching his fingers to hold himself together.
"Let me see," he muttered, still avoiding her eyes.
Isa nodded quickly and placed her laptop in front of him. "Here, sir."
Chris gripped the mouse, but the words on the screen blurred and danced.
"I copied your sample, sir. Just like you instructed."
Chris gave a faint nod. Her voice felt far away.
"We can't control what life throws at us, but we can control how we react." Nolan's words echoed.
But what if some things can't be controlled? Chris clenched his fists.
Chris shut the laptop and slid it toward Isa. "Not bad."
"Do… do I need to work on it again?" Isa asked softly.
"I don't remember saying that." He picked up his notebook and pen.
Isa pressed her lips into a thin line and nodded, scooping up the laptop.
Chris tossed the notebook onto the desk again, the image still etched in his mind. As Isa turned to leave, a quiet sigh slipped from his lips. He rubbed his temple, Nolan's words echoing still.
And before he could stop himself, the name escaped.
"Isa—"
Everything stilled. The air froze.
Isa's hand, halfway to the doorknob, stopped. Her heart thundered in her chest.
Chris's eyes widened. His breath caught. The pen slipped from his fingers and clattered against the floor like glass.
Isa blinked, startled, and turned.
Chris, caught off guard, raised a brow in a sharp, almost defensive arch. "What?" His voice came out hoarse and stiff. Cold.
Isa clutched her laptop tighter. "You… you called me."
"Did I?" He smirked, regaining his composure. He leaned back and picked up his notebook.
"I thought you did, sir," she whispered, rubbing the back of her neck.
"You thought." A pang pressed against Chris's chest at his own denial, but he shoved it away and scanned his desk.
"Well, you have work to do." He leaned forward. "Find the best painting supply company and order the painting materials."
Then, he picked up a thick, black sketchbook and a file.
"These sketches are for my six exhibition pieces," he said without looking at her. "The printed notes show the timeline and working titles."
Isa nodded, her eyes fixed on the folder.
"I want them typed. Organize everything—title, timeline, priority. Prepare a clean version for the exhibition binder. Alphabetize the file names when uploading to the shared drive." He tossed the materials onto the desk.
"Oh… okay. Yes. I can do that." She stepped forward and gathered them.
"That sketchbook holds three months of my thoughts," Chris added, sharply. "One wrong hand, one wrong file link, and the world sees what isn't ready. Understood?"
Isa swallowed. "I understand."
"You're dismissed."
He returned to his notebook and leaned back.
Isa gave a slight bow and left quickly.
The moment the door closed, Chris exhaled hard. He loosened his tie, unbuttoned his collar. Sweat clung to his skin. His heart pounded violently.
His hands trembled as he dropped the notebook onto the desk. He raked his fingers through his hair and buried his face in his palms. His breath, ragged.
"This isn't happening," he whispered.
Isa dropped her laptop and the folder on her desk. She blew out a shaky breath and fanned her face. Her cheeks burned.
Isa… Isa… Isa.
"Isa?" she whispered to herself and clutched her chest. Her heart raced. She cupped her face, eyes shut, shaking her head.
How could he say it like that—so informal, so familiar?
She remembered that summer twilight—the scent of pine, the hush of the woods—when he whispered her name like it meant something sacred. That same feeling had come rushing back. Her heart fluttered like leaves caught in a breeze.
It was him. She had believed it. The boy from the woods. The one who kissed her beneath the trees. The one she never forgot.
But then… he looked at her like she was crazy. He called her—then denied it.
Did he lie… or did I imagine it?
"Gosh…" Isa buried her face in her palms, cheeks flushed.
And he'd looked angry, too. Like she'd messed up—again.
"Why do you keep thinking about him?" she whispered. "You need to forget Steven. Focus, Isa."
"And who is Steven?"
Isa jumped, nearly knocking over her chair. "Oh, God!" she gasped, clutching her chest. "You scared me!"
Ryan chuckled. "Sorry. But really—who's Steven? Your boyfriend?" He grinned.
"Boy… boyfriend?" Isa laughed nervously, her voice low. "What are you talking about?" She busied herself with the folder.
"Come on, girl. You're old enough for a boyfriend. Want to tell me?"
Isa sighed, forcing a smile. "Thanks, Ryan. But what are you doing here?"
"That!" Ryan clapped his hands. "The staff are going out for dinner. You coming?"
Isa raised a brow. "Dinner?" she murmured. "I'm sorry. I have a lot of work."
Ryan's smile faded. He nodded. "Okay. But you can still join us if you change your mind."
Isa smiled politely and nodded.
"Good luck. And focus." He winked and gave a thumbs-up.
Isa rolled her eyes as he left, then tilted her head.
"Boyfriend?" she echoed, thinking of Ryan's words. "I never thought of that."
They had only kissed once. He never said he loved her. She never did either.
Do I? The thought made her heart skip.
She blinked, replaying her reaction earlier in the office.
"What am I thinking?" Isa murmured, smacking her cheeks gently to snap herself out of it, then let out a long, shaky breath.
A few meters away, behind the glass wall, Chris stood silently, watching her. His lips curved into a bittersweet smile.