Day-three Calculated Moves

Elliot

I’d barely stepped into my office when Gerald appeared in the doorway, a stack of files in his hands and a look that told me my schedule for the day was about to be anything but pleasant.

“Morning, sir,” he began, placing the files on my desk. “Your nine o’clock with the board is confirmed, the budget meeting is at eleven, and lunch is with Mr. Vaughn to finalize the partnership terms.”

I nodded.

“And Ms. Hart’s integration into the marketing team is proceeding smoothly,” Gerald added, pulling me back to the conversation.

My eyes flicked to him. “Any concerns?”

“None so far. She’s efficient, confident. I’d say she’s exceeding expectations already.”

A hint of pride swelled in my chest, but I kept my expression neutral. “Good,” I said casually. “Keep me updated.”

The truth was, I didn’t need Gerald to tell me how Susan was doing. I’d already checked in with her team lead, glanced at her initial reports, and overheard more than one colleague singing her praises. Susan didn’t just meet expectations—she shattered them.

But this wasn’t just about her professional performance. Today, I needed to step things up.

After Gerald left, I leaned back in my chair, drumming my fingers on the desk. Yesterday’s coffee had been a small victory. I’d seen the flicker of surprise in her eyes, the faint softening of her expression. It wasn’t much, but it was enough to tell me I was on the right track.

Today, though, I needed to take a more direct approach. Something that showed her I was paying attention—not just to her work, but to her.

An idea struck, and I reached for my phone. After a quick call to my assistant, the plan was set.

---

By mid-afternoon, I found myself standing outside Susan’s office. The door was slightly ajar, and I could hear the faint sound of her voice—calm, composed, and unmistakably in command.

I knocked lightly before stepping inside. “Busy?”

Susan looked up from her laptop, her expression guarded but polite. “Just finishing up a report. What’s up?”

“I wanted to check in,” I said, keeping my tone easy. “Make sure everything’s going smoothly.”

She leaned back in her chair, arms crossed. “Everything’s fine. Thanks.”

I could tell she was waiting for me to leave, but I wasn’t about to make this easy for her. Instead, I placed the small, neatly wrapped box on her desk.

Her eyes narrowed slightly. “What’s this?”

“Just something I thought you’d like,” I said. “Go ahead, open it.”

She hesitated for a moment before pulling at the ribbon. Inside was a sleek leather notebook, engraved with her initials on the bottom corner.

“I remember you always carried a notebook in college,” I said, watching her reaction carefully. “Thought you might need a new one for all the brilliant ideas I know you’ll have.”

Her fingers lingered on the smooth cover, but her expression remained unreadable. “It’s thoughtful,” she admitted finally, her voice softer now.

“But?” I prompted, sensing the hesitation.

She looked up at me, her eyes sharp. “But I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Elliot. The coffee, the compliments, this—” she gestured to the notebook—“it feels… calculated.”

I leaned against her desk, meeting her gaze head-on. “It’s not calculated, Susan. It’s intentional. There’s a difference.”

Her brows furrowed, but she didn’t say anything, so I pressed on.

“I know I have a lot to make up for,” I said. “And I know I can’t undo the past. But I want you to know that I see you—not just as a colleague or an employee, but as someone who deserves every bit of success coming her way.”

For a moment, the room was silent except for the faint hum of the air conditioning. I could see the conflict in her eyes, the part of her that wanted to believe me warring with the part that was still guarding her heart.

Finally, she sighed, closing the notebook and setting it aside. “Thank you,” she said, her tone measured. “But if this is some kind of game to you, Elliot, I’m not playing.”

“It’s not a game,” I said firmly. “And I’m not giving up.”

Her lips pressed into a thin line, but she didn’t argue. Instead, she turned back to her laptop, clearly signaling that the conversation was over.

As I left her office, a faint smile tugged at my lips. She could put up all the walls she wanted—I wasn’t going anywhere.

Day 3, and the battle was just beginning.

****

Susan

When Elliot walked into my office this afternoon, I wasn’t surprised. Not really. After the coffee yesterday and his carefully chosen words about believing in me, I should’ve known he’d try something else.

Still, I wasn’t prepared for him to show up with a gift.

The small box he placed on my desk wasn’t extravagant or flashy, but it caught me off guard. Inside was a leather notebook—simple, elegant, and engraved with my initials.

It was the kind of thoughtful gesture that would’ve melted my heart ten years ago. Back then, I would’ve read so much into something like this. But now? Now, it just made me suspicious.

“What’s this?” I asked, keeping my tone neutral.

His answer was casual, but there was an intensity in his gaze that made it hard to look away. “Just something I thought you’d like.”

And then, as if he’d been saving it for the perfect moment, he said something that hit me right in the chest.

“I remember you always carried a notebook in college. Thought you might need a new one for all the brilliant ideas I know you’ll have.”

I froze. He remembered that? How I used to scribble down everything—ideas for projects, quotes that inspired me, even little doodles when I was bored during lectures?

For a moment, I didn’t know what to say. My fingers traced the initials on the cover, the soft leather smooth under my touch. It was such a small thing, but it felt so… personal.

And that’s what scared me.

Because Elliot Prescott wasn’t supposed to be personal anymore. He was supposed to be my boss. Someone I worked for, nothing more.

But the way he’d been acting—the coffee, the compliments, this gift—it was all starting to feel like something more. And as much as I wanted to dismiss it, to write it off as nothing, it was getting under my skin.

“It’s thoughtful,” I said finally, forcing myself to look at him. “But…”

“But what?” he asked, his voice calm but probing.

I sighed, setting the notebook down. “I don’t know what you’re trying to do, Elliot. The coffee, the compliments, this—it feels… calculated.”

His response caught me off guard.

“It’s not calculated, Susan. It’s intentional. There’s a difference.”

I wanted to laugh, to brush him off, but the sincerity in his eyes stopped me. And then he said something that made my chest tighten:

“I know I have a lot to make up for. And I know I can’t undo the past. But I want you to know that I see you—not just as a colleague or an employee, but as someone who deserves every bit of success coming her way.”

For a split second, I felt something crack. The walls I’d built around my heart, the ones I’d spent years reinforcing, felt a little less sturdy.

But then the memories came flooding back.

The arguments. The tears. The way he’d walked away, choosing his family's expectations over us.

I couldn’t let myself forget how much that had hurt. How much I’d lost because of him.

“Thank you,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “But if this is some kind of game to you, Elliot, I’m not playing.”

“It’s not a game,” he said, his tone firm. “And I’m not giving up.”

His words lingered long after he left.

Later that evening, as I sat on my couch with Meera on the other end of the line, I found myself replaying the conversation in my head.

“He’s really trying, isn’t he?” Meera said after I told her about the coffee, the notebook, and his words.

“Trying to what?” I asked, though I already knew the answer.

“To get you back,” she said simply.

I scoffed, even as my chest tightened. “It’s just guilt. He probably feels bad about what happened back then and wants to make himself feel better.”

Meera didn’t buy it. “Susan, come on. A guy doesn’t go out of his way to remember little things like your favorite coffee or how you always carried a notebook if it’s just guilt.”

I wanted to argue, but the truth was, I didn’t know what to believe anymore.

All I knew was that Elliot Prescott was getting under my skin in a way I hadn’t anticipated. And no matter how much I tried to convince myself that I didn’t care, that I was over it, a small part of me—the part I hated—wanted to believe that maybe, just maybe, he meant every word.

But I couldn’t let myself hope. Not again. Not after everything I’d been through.

Because the last time I let Elliot into my heart, he shattered it.

And I wasn’t sure I could survive another heartbreak.