WHAT THE VOWS DIDN'T SAY

I stared at the numbers on the screen without really seeing them. The fluorescent lights above buzzed faintly, a sound I usually tuned out. Today, it scraped against my nerves. The pressure in my skull throbbed in time with the bruises along my ribs, sharp and steady. Every breath felt shallow, like my lungs had forgotten how to expand properly. The folder Sebastian handed me earlier lay open beside the keyboard. I'd read it three times and still hadn't absorbed a word. I shifted in my chair, and pain lit up my side. I didn't react. Not outwardly. I was good at that anyways, wearing the stillness like armor, masking the tight tremble in my hands with controlled movements, silence. The only sound in my cubicle was the soft click of the mouse. I hadn't spoken to anyone all morning. No one tried. And that was a relief. Because even a glance, a wrong glance, felt like it might undo me. When the intercom on my desk crackled, I jumped. "Isla," Sebastian's voice came through, clipped but low. "My office. Now." I swallowed once. Then stood. I walked stiffly to his door, keeping my hands hidden in my sleeves, spine straight despite the pain. The office looked the same as always,too polished, too wide, too cold. But Sebastian wasn't behind the desk. He stood by the window again. I shut the door quietly behind me. "You asked for me." He turned. His eyes swept over me, slower this time. More deliberate. I didn't meet them. I kept my gaze on the floor. "I read the Parsons report," he said, "but I need your input on the changes in the vendor statements. There's a discrepancy in Q2 projections." I nodded. "I'll take another look." He didn't move. Didn't speak again for a long moment. Then: "Come here." I hesitated. Something in his voice wasn't just business...it just made my stomach flutter. I walked to the edge of his desk, folder tucked against my chest like a shield. I stood still, waiting for the numbers, the corrections, the email instructions. But Sebastian didn't speak. Not right away. He was watching me too closely again. "You're hiding something." Aint that the second time he's saying that today? The words were soft. Intentional. I looked up at him, but only for a second. "I told you. I'm just tired." He moved then, just a step, but it shifted the air in the room. Close enough to reach me. His hand lifted slightly, hesitating in the space between us. He didn't touch me, not yet, just hovered like he was trying to decide whether I'd break if he did. I didn't breathe. And when his fingertips brushed the edge of my sleeve, barely, softly, a whisper of contact, I flinched. It wasn't dramatic. Not a jump. Not a gasp. Just a tightening of my shoulders, a sharp step back, the sound of breath catching in my throat. Something about his touch made me melt. But it was enough. Enough for Sebastian to notice. Enough to make his hand drop instantly, as if he'd touched a flame and been burned. His jaw hardened. He didn't say anything. Didn't try again. Something shifted behind his eyes, frustration, maybe. Or regret. Or both. The silence between us stretched. I hated it. Hated that I made him pull back. Hated that my body reacted before my mind could stop it. That fear had become instinct. That Marcus had rewired me this way. "I didn't mean..."Sebastian started, but didn't finish. He turned from me, walked back to his desk, and sat down with slow precision. Like he was forcing himself to return to business. Like the moment didn't matter. But it did. I stayed where I was, frozen in place. "Forget it," he said, flipping the folder open. "We'll discuss the projections later." My voice came out thinner than I meant. "I can fix them now." "No," he said sharply, then softer, "no. Later's fine." I nodded once. But didn't move. Sebastian didn't look at me. His shoulders were tight. His jaw locked. I saw the effort in the way he held himself still, how much he was not saying. I knew that silence well. It was the same one I lived in. After a moment, I turned toward the door. But before I could leave, his voice stopped me again. "I won't ask you again," he said quietly. "But I see it, Isla." My fingers tightened on the folder. "You don't have to be afraid of me." I didn't answer. Because I wasn't afraid of him. I was afraid of what touching felt like now, how it could turn a body into a battlefield. How even kindness could feel dangerous when you were used to cruelty wearing the same face. "I just want to work," I said. He nodded once. I left the office without another word. But his gaze stayed with me all the way back to my desk. Burning in the quiet places I tried to keep untouched.