Chapter 5

Leah's POV 

(Two days later…) 

Dwight Spencer. The man who shattered my world and forced me to rebuild it piece by painful piece.

I stare up at the towering structure before me, sleek and monolithic, its dark-tinted glass revealing nothing of what lies inside. There’s no grand logo stamped across the entrance, no bold declaration of ownership—just a name, subtly etched in polished steel near the door. Glimmr. It’s almost an afterthought, as if the man behind it prefers to let power speak for itself rather than parade it.

“This is one hell of a building,” Patricia, my father’s executive assistant, murmurs, her tone tinged with awe. 

I nod absently, swallowing hard. “It is,” I reply, though my voice wavers slightly. Dwight's company name is etched boldly into the sleek silver plaque by the entrance. It looms over me like a silent dare, challenging me to step inside. 

Without another word, Patricia and I push through the glass doors, entering a pristine lobby bathed in soft, natural light. The air is crisp and cool, and the faint scent of polished wood lingers. My eyes drift over the elegant furnishings, each detail a testament to Dwight’s meticulous taste. Even five years ago, he’d always had big dreams, but this... this is something else entirely. 

The receptionist greets us with a warm smile. “Good morning. How may I assist you?” 

I square my shoulders, forcing confidence into my tone. “Leah Carrington. I’m here for the 10 a.m. meeting with Mr. Spencer, representing Veloura.” 

The receptionist’s smile doesn’t falter as she picks up the phone. “One moment, Ms. Carrington. Let me inform Mr. Spencer you’ve arrived.” 

Her voice is calm, professional, and yet every word she utters feels like a countdown to the moment I’ve been dreading. 

“Yes, Mr. Spencer,” she says into the phone after a brief pause. “Your 10 a.m. is here.” She replaces the receiver with a small click and turns back to us. “He’ll be ready for you shortly. Please have a seat, and someone will be down to escort you to the conference room.” 

I thank her and settle into one of the plush chairs in the waiting area. Patricia sits beside me, her hands folded neatly in her lap, but I can see the tension in her shoulders. 

The minutes tick by with excruciating slowness. My palms grow clammy, and I clutch my handbag tighter, willing myself to focus. I repeat the same mantra in my head: This is just business. Nothing more.

Finally, a sharply dressed young man approaches. “Ms. Carrington, Ms. Saunders, please follow me.” 

We’re led through a maze of glass-walled offices and pristine hallways, the silence unnerving. Even here, inside his own fortress, Dwight Spencer remains unseen. There are no portraits of the CEO, no articles framed on the walls. Just cold, impersonal elegance. 

When we reach the conference room, I nearly falter. The space is breathtaking—vast and modern, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a stunning view of the city.

Patricia leans closer to me. “Do you feel as nervous as I do?” she whispers. 

I open my mouth to reply, but the door swings open before I can form the words. 

And then he’s there. 

Dwight. 

The air feels heavier the moment he enters, his presence commanding the room effortlessly. He’s changed in so many ways, yet the core of him—the sheer intensity—remains untouched. His hair, once a lush of unruly black curls, is now cropped close in a buzz cut that only sharpens the chiseled lines of his face. His suit fits perfectly, tailored to emphasize the broad shoulders and lean build that once felt so familiar. 

His piercing blue eyes meet mine, and for a moment, the rest of the world fades away. Memories crash over me—his laughter, his touch, the warmth of his smile—all tangled with the pain of his disappearance and the devastation that followed. 

“Good morning, ladies,” Dwight says, his voice smooth, deep, and devoid of emotion. 

“Good morning,” Patricia and I reply in unison. 

“Please, have a seat.” He gestures to the chairs with a slight nod, and we comply, settling in as he takes his place at the head of the table. His presence had been so commanding I hadn't even realized when we had stood to greet him. 

Dwight wastes no time, diving straight into the meeting with a professionalism that is both impressive and unnerving. I don't know what I had expected. That he'd take one look at me and fall on his knees with an explanation of why he had disappeared five years ago? 

“I’ve reviewed Veloura’s proposal,” he begins, sliding a sleek folder across the table toward me. “It’s ambitious, but it has potential. There are, however, certain adjustments I’d like to discuss.” 

I nod, opening the folder and scanning its contents. The terms are straightforward, at least until my eyes land on a specific clause. 

“You want me to work on this project exclusively? For six months?” I ask, my voice steady but edged with disbelief. 

“Yes,” Dwight replies, his tone calm and measured. “This campaign is a significant undertaking. I can’t afford divided attention or miscommunication.” 

The weight of his words sinks in, and I clench my hands beneath the table to keep from trembling. Six months of working alongside Dwight. Six months of pretending that he’s just another business partner, that he hasn’t haunted my dreams for years. 

“I'd like to remind you, Mr Spencer that I have a business too.”

“Well, if you really want Veloura and Glimmr to deal, then you will follow by my rules.” Dwight's words are uttered in a simple measured tone, but even I can tell that he means every word, and he dosen't look away from me. So that suddenly were having a staring contest, daring each other to look away first. 

Dwight’s expression remains unreadable as he continues. “You’ll need to sign the agreement before we proceed. My assistant will send the finalized version to you by the end of the day.” 

He leans back slightly, his gaze sharp and unyielding. “This is strictly professional, Ms. Carrington. I trust you understand that.” 

His detachment is infuriating, though I refuse to let it show. I match his tone, nodding curtly. “I’ve reviewed my father’s project plan, and I believe the timeline you’ve proposed is feasible. However, we’ll need to outline clear milestones and assign specific responsibilities to ensure efficiency.” I finally look away, hating that I have given in up defeat. 

Dwight’s lips twitch, almost as if he’s impressed. “Agreed. I’ll have my team draft the specifics and send them over by tomorrow.” 

Apparently losing a staring contest isn't the only thing I have failed at with Dwight. I have also been forced to agree to work exclusively for six months with him. I wonder whether my father would even slightly think of doing the same for me—shelving his own business to help me run mine, even for a few weeks. 

But here I am, about to do it for him for more than just a few weeks. 

When the meeting concludes, Dwight stands and extends a hand to me. “Thank you for coming. I look forward to working with you.” Our exchange is clinical, devoid of warmth, and yet every glance, every word feels charged with unspoken tension. 

I hesitate for the briefest moment before taking his hand. His grip is firm, his touch steady, and I’m struck by how composed he is. The Dwight I knew was passionate, expressive, and warm. This Dwight is a fortress—calm, controlled, and utterly impenetrable. 

As Patricia and I leave the building, I glance back once, half-expecting to see him watching me from one of the towering windows. But there’s nothing. 

Six months. How am I supposed to survive six months with a man who still owns pieces of my heart I thought I’d buried long ago?