Just as he was about to leave, the door opened once again and Rachel Teschmacher slipped through it, her heels whispering against the polished hardwood.
She carried her usual pack of files, her dark hair was swept into a neat side wave, sheathing one eye, though the other showed the emotions stirring inside her.
Her steps as well were tentative, as if she were crossing a tightrope. Beneath her composed exterior, anxiety coiled like a spring, tightening with every moment she got closer.
Darren was by his desk, a solitary figure haloed by the city's glow. His charcoal suit was impeccable, but his posture— arms crossed, shoulders rigid— spoke of a man barricaded within himself.
"I just saw Miss Sinclair leave" Rachel said softly, her voice barely disturbing the stillness. "Is everything alright?"
Darren didn't move. The silence stretched, heavy and deliberate, until it seemed the room itself was holding its breath.
