Cold edge of the horizon

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The silence that followed my name was louder than any of the office chatter from moments ago. It was a vacuum, sucking the oxygen out of the room until my lungs felt like they were collapsing.

Justine didn’t move. He didn't rush toward me with a nostalgic smile, nor did he look particularly shocked. He just stood there, one hand casually tucked into the pocket of his charcoal trousers, the other resting on the edge of his mahogany desk. He looked exactly like the man I had seen in my nightmares—only this time, the light wasn't flickering. He was solid, real, and devastatingly distant.

“Mr. Valderama?” Sarah, the HR representative, looked between us, her professional mask slipping just a fraction. “Do you… already know our new hire?”

Justine’s gaze didn't waver from mine. For a heartbeat, I saw a flash of the boy who used to jump over my garden fence, but it was quickly extinguished by a cold, corporate sheen.

“We grew up in the same neighborhood,” he said. His voice was smooth, devoid of any warmth, as if he were reciting a footnote in a biography. “It’s been a long time. Welcome to the firm, Ms. Chen.”

Ms. Chen.

The formality was like a physical barrier he had erected between us. It was a warning. Don’t bring the sidewalk here. Don’t bring the fireflies into this office.

“Thank you, Mr. Valderama,” I managed to say. My voice was steady—a small victory—but my heart was still hammering a frantic rhythm against my ribs.

“Sarah,” Justine continued, turning his attention back to his monitor, “please ensure Ms. Chen is briefed on the Q3 projections. I’ll need her in the executive briefing room in ten minutes. We have a lot to catch up on—professionally speaking.”

With that, he dismissed us. He didn't look back. He didn't offer a "how have you been?" or "it's good to see you." He simply went back to being the CEO, and I was just another line on his schedule.

The next ten minutes were a blur of Sarah handing me folders and showing me to a sleek, glass-walled conference room. My hands were cold as I flipped through the pages. Numbers. Analytics. Market trends. I tried to focus, but the image of Justine—the new Justine—was burned into my retinas.

How had he become this? The Justine I knew hated wearing shoes and spent his weekends drawing in tattered notebooks. This man looked like he had been forged in a furnace of ambition and steel.

When the door to the briefing room opened, my breath hitched.

He walked in alone. He didn't sit at the head of the long table; instead, he walked over to the espresso machine in the corner, his back to me.

“Black or with cream?” he asked.

“I… I don’t drink coffee this late,” I stammered.

“It’s 9:15 AM, Jimei,” he said, turning around with a porcelain cup in hand. He leaned against the counter, watching me with an intensity that made me want to shrink into my chair. “Or have you forgotten that, too?”

“I haven’t forgotten anything, Justine,” I said, the name slipping out before I could stop it.

His jaw tightened at the sound of his first name. He set the cup down with a sharp clack.

“In this building, I am Mr. Valderama. Or Sir. Never Justine.” He walked toward the table, pulling out a chair directly across from me. “The girl who sat on the pavement is gone. The boy who sat next to her is dead. We are here to work. Is that understood?”

The bluntness of it felt like a slap. I felt the familiar sting of tears behind my eyes—the same ones from that night by my window—but I refused to let them fall. Not here. Not in front of him.

“Perfectly,” I replied, my voice hardening. “I’m here because I’m the best person for this job, not because of some childhood history.”

“Good,” he said, though he didn't look convinced. He slid a thick blue folder across the table toward me. “Then start with this. This is the merger with the Ortega Group. It’s the biggest deal in the company’s history. My fiancée, Elena Ortega, is the lead negotiator on their side. You’ll be working closely with her to coordinate the logistics.”

The word fiancée hit me like a physical blow. I felt the air leave my lungs again. I remembered the girl from the dreams—the pretty one, the confident one. Claire. Now there was an Elena. Different name, same story. He was always moving toward someone who wasn't me.

“Fiancée,” I repeated, the word tasting like ash.

“Yes,” Justine said, his expression unreadable. “The wedding is in December. It’s a strategic partnership as much as a personal one. Which is why everything must be perfect. No mistakes, Ms. Chen. I don’t tolerate them.”

He stood up, signaling the end of the meeting. He checked his watch—a sleek, silver piece that probably cost more than my college tuition.

“You have your assignments. My assistant will show you to your desk. It’s right outside my office.”

As he walked toward the door, he paused, his hand on the handle. For a fleeting second, he didn't look like a CEO. He looked tired.

“Jimei,” he said softly, without turning around.

“Yes?”

“Don’t look for the fireflies here. There’s no light left in this place.”

The door closed behind him with a soft, final click. I sat in the silent room, staring at the blue folder. I had wanted a fresh start. I had wanted to leave the past behind. But as I looked at the name Valderama embossed in gold on the cover, I realized that I hadn't escaped the dream at all.

I was just waking up to a much colder reality.

I opened the folder. The first thing I saw wasn't a graph or a chart. It was a photo of Justine and Elena at a gala, smiling, their hands intertwined. She was glowing. He was poised.

And I was just the girl from next door, hired to manage the details of a life I was no longer a part of.

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