"Stupid, Emilia. So stupid," I whispered to myself, eyes closed.

"Why think that about yourself?" A gentle male voice spoke above me. My eyes flew open. Looking up, I saw Andrew Collins standing there. Wesley Jones's constant companion, ThreadLink's co-founder and COO, frequently appearing alongside Wesley in business news. And, incidentally, also a volunteer at the community center.

Wesley and Andrew were polar opposites.

Wesley was the quiet one, the thinker lost in code and strategy, often appearing aloof or awkward in public. Andrew was the born socialite, with a charming smile, a master of PR and negotiation, ThreadLink's smoothest and most public-friendly face. Wesley cared about every logical detail of the product; Andrew seemed to navigate the business world with sheer savvy and interpersonal skill, securing astounding deals without deep technical diving.

"Lost it a bit in the session, huh? I'm guessing that's making the rounds in the volunteer chat." He nodded, then, to my shock, simply sat down on the floor opposite me. Those perceptive dark eyes gazed calmly into my green ones.

"Actually, Lisa just texted asking if I'd seen you. She's a bit worried." Damn smartphones. Damn WhatsApp. I cursed internally.

"You know she's grouping the kids for the street art festival project, right?" I groaned, closing my eyes and shaking my head, fingers digging into my hair. "And, to introduce 'cross-disciplinary thinking,' she wants to bring in some 'guest advisors.'"

"Any clues as to which big shot I might be getting paired with?" I looked up to see an impossibly fast, thoughtful flicker cross his face. He tapped the side of his phone once, clearly reading a message or typing a quick reply. This new tech elite really needed to learn how to mask those micro-expressions better from the old-money crowd.

"You and… well, Wesley. Our CEO. Have been proposed as a 'cross-disciplinary creative pair.' Lisa pulled some strings, got through to ThreadLink's CSR department. Wesley actually agreed to take it on himself." My eyes widened. He watched the color drain from my face, his brow furrowing with concern.

"Fuck. I have to go." I scrambled to my feet, grabbed my backpack, and fled down the hallway towards the restroom. I stared at my panicked reflection, rubbing my eyes hard until tiny sparks danced in my vision.

"It's fine. Be professional. Keep your distance. Pretend you don't know him. Treat him like any other collaborator. Keep it strictly business. Don't touch him. Don't get close. Don't let him sense anything… or this will be beyond humiliating." *'I don't even believe that crap myself,'* I sneered internally.

I rolled my eyes at my reflection. Just then, my old phone buzzed in my pocket—the next session was about to start. I took a deep breath, grabbed my bag, and headed for the children's activity zone. Thank God he wouldn't be there. Yet. But my thoughts were already spiraling towards that name.

I could almost feel the aura of his world in the air—not a scent, but an intangible pressure, a sense of ultimate order and efficiency, radiating from James, his ever-present, sharp-eyed head of security.

I carefully constructed his image in my mind, the imagined mix of sea salt, mint, and coffee unsettling me. What would I even look like under his reportedly algorithm-like observation? Probably like an incongruous bug in the code, bearing the marks of a struggle at the bottom, with occasional defensive spikes.

Time crawled by in a blur of mundane tasks until the lunch break finally offered a sliver of respite.

Entering the cramped staff lounge/kitchen, heading for the vending machine, I felt several pairs of colleagues' eyes on me. I pulled out a crumpled five-dollar bill—today's lunch budget—and bought the cheapest yogurt and an apple. At least it saved money and made me look less pitiable. Turning to find a quiet corner, I almost bumped into someone.

"Emilia, wait!" It was Andrew. He stood by the small round table usually claimed by management and senior volunteers, waving me over. Curious glances immediately ping-ponged between us. So, "mysterious, prickly Emilia" talking to "ThreadLink's co-founder" was going to be lunchtime gossip.

"What is it, Andrew?" I tried to keep my voice neutral.

"Wesley wanted to have a preliminary chat about ideas for the art festival project. He's got an urgent conference call, but it should wrap up soon." I knew exactly what this meant, but said nothing. That familiar, twisted ache of longing and dread bloomed in my chest again, so familiar it was almost numbness.

The first time I'd realized my absurd fixation on him, it felt like a shameful torment. But I'd learned to live with it. This hopeless "pang" had been a constant for two years now.

"Emilia. Hey." A low, slightly rough voice, infinitely more real and affecting than any audio clip, sounded behind me. I turned and met Wesley Jones's famous blue eyes. Something *clicked* in my mind, like a secret switch had been thrown. I felt a part of me screaming internally, begging to be let out, but I used all my strength to shove it back down. He was walking over with Paige, who looked like she'd just rushed from a formal event, a strand of hair out of place.

"Hey, uh—" My throat was dry.

"Wesley." He supplied, the corner of his mouth seeming to quirk ever so slightly. I knew his name. God, of course I did.

"Sorry, this art festival collaboration is a bit… unexpected. Any initial thoughts on adapting Shakespeare for street art?" He leaned in slightly, pulling a worn paperback from his impeccably tailored briefcase—*The Complete Works of Shakespeare*. The spine was cracked, as if read countless times. A faint scent, like antique paper mixed with clean, crisp wood, wafted towards me. It took all my willpower not to inhale deeply, obviously.

"You mentioned camouflage or resilience earlier… I thought the core idea could be interesting combined with drama." I nodded, almost mechanically taking the book, my fingers brushing the damaged cover. The cool touch grounded me slightly. Clutching the book and my half-eaten apple, I made to turn away.

"Okay. I'll look this over. We can talk later."

"Wait." Just as I looked down to hide my fluster, a warm, dry hand gently closed around my upper arm.

Not a grab. Just a steady hold.

Instantly, a strange current shot across my skin. Not painful, but it made every hair stand on end and my heart stop. I froze, eyes wide, clearly hearing his own breath hitch almost imperceptibly behind me.

*Shit.*

"Later, Wesley." I didn't turn, my voice tight. I quickened my pace, trying not to look like I was running.

I practically shoved the lounge door open, then broke into a jog towards the stairs. Just as I rounded the first landing, I heard the door open behind me. "Emilia, wait!" "Damn it, damn it, damn it," I hissed under my breath, taking the stairs two at a time.

I climbed several flights until I reached the usually locked fire door to the roof. Fumbling out the spare key Lisa had given me, I unlocked it, slipped through, and gently closed it behind me. Thank God. It was high enough, quiet enough, far enough from his disorienting sphere of influence.

I walked to the shaded edge of the roof, slid down the rough brick wall, and took a bite of my now-browning apple before opening the heavy book.

I did what I'd wanted to do downstairs—brought the pages close to my nose and took a deep, stealthy breath. The scent lingering there, maybe from his study, his fingertips, his orderly world. I spent the entire lunch break flipping pages, smiling at the occasional hasty pencil notes in the margins. The handwriting was sharp, a bit rushed, with a few tiny ink blots.

On the flyleaf, in elegant script, it read: *"For Wesley, may you always retain your insight into classic texts. Love, Mom. July 23, 2007."*

A birthday gift for the ten-year-old future ThreadLink founder. Knowing this made me feel like a pathetic voyeur, but I couldn't stop imagining the little boy who'd received it.

Just before the bell signaled the end of lunch, I headed back down. Passing the conference room sometimes rented out to corporations for high-end training, I made the mistake of glancing inside the partially open door.

My gaze crashed directly into Wesley Jones's icy blue depths. He was listening intently to someone's presentation, but in that split second, he seemed to sense something. His eyes shifted to the doorway, locking with mine.

Time suspended. It was a dizzying, weightless feeling. My lips parted slightly, but no sound came out. Then, a child's piercing scream erupted from downstairs, yanking me violently back to reality.

"Damn." I turned and dashed down the stairs as fast as I could, running for the bike shed. I jumped on my scooter, started it, and sped away. In the rearview mirror, I saw him step out of the community center's main doors, standing on the steps, his gaze following the taillight of my retreating scooter, his figure looking oddly tall and… solitary in the afternoon light.

That night, Mother was particularly vicious.

Maybe some memory had resurfaced. Her liquor bottle connected with my cheekbone, splitting the skin. The sting of alcohol mixing with blood was nothing compared to the insane hatred in her eyes.

"Spacing out?" She sniffed the air like a feral animal, though I swore I carried no scent. "Over what?? A man, isn't it? You want to be like me? Want to end up a worthless, discarded mess like me?!"

After her tirade, she collapsed, exhausted, onto the sofa. I stumbled upstairs to my tiny room. Locking the door, I stripped and stood before the full-length mirror.

The body reflected back wasn't perfect, marked by fresh purples and old, faded scars. I took out the razor blade hidden deep in a drawer, closed my eyes, and pressed the sharp edge against the skin of my thigh.

Too thick. The lines weren't elegant enough, not slender. Not like Paige, whose every gown in news photos accentuated just the right curves.

Would he ever accept this? I wasn't blonde, had no pedigree, no carefree past—just a messed-up family and a heart full of scars. I only knew my biological father's name: Everette Collins. A man I'd never met, reportedly successful in real estate. I'd never tried to find him until this moment, when the thought pierced me sharply—if I had a normal father, a decent family, would I have the courage to face Wesley Jones on slightly more equal footing?

Maybe, if I had those things, I'd have allowed myself a shred of genuine fantasy about him. Maybe he would have… No. Stop. Irritated, I tossed the blade aside, not bothering with the thin line of blood on my leg, and fell onto the bed fully clothed. Muffled, hitched sobs drifted up from downstairs. She still loved the man who ruined her, using her pain to torture both herself and me. Every time she sobered up slightly, the regret and rage intensified, and I was the only available target.

My cheek burned, the bruise on my cheekbone stark in the mirror. I closed my eyes, feeling my way downstairs, holding my breath, moving like a shadow along the wall.

Only after slipping out the front door and swinging onto my scooter did I let out a long breath. The engine's roar temporarily drowned out the internal screaming. I'd barely slept an hour last night before Mom, drunk, stormed in and woke me by squeezing my throat. I knew there would be fingerprints. Thank God for today's high-necked sweater.

As I rode into the dedicated parking behind the community center, the air seemed to freeze for a second. Andrew, James, and Wesley himself were walking from a低调 but undoubtedly expensive black sedan, seemingly returning from a meeting. I sighed, parked, kicked down the stand, and bent to fiddle with my lock, head down.

"Hi, Emilia." Andrew's voice was, as always, friendly.

I took a deep breath, looked up, and removed my helmet. Andrew's customary smile froze instantly. James's pupils contracted slightly, his lips pressing into a thin line. My hair tumbled down, attempting to veil my cheek.

Wesley's gaze was like a precision laser, instantly locking onto the bruise on my cheekbone I couldn't fully hide. His Adam's apple bobbed. His jawline tightened abruptly. A storm seemed to gather in those ice-blue eyes. He took a step forward, his voice low, but carrying a cold, terrifying anger:

"Who did this? Do you need me to call the police?"