Chapter 165: The prying eye 2
The hallway narrowed. The noise of the office faded. Until it was just him. And the door. He stopped in front of it. For a fraction of a second. Then knocked.
Once. Controlled. And pushed it open. Inside, the room was quieter. Softer. The chaos outside barely reached here.
Amara had just settled onto the couch, her body angled slightly as she tried to find a comfortable position. The exhaustion she had been holding back was no longer hidden, written plainly in the way she leaned into the cushions, in the slow rise and fall of her chest.
She looked up as the door opened. A flicker of surprise crossed her face, but not alarm. Not yet.
Raymond stepped inside, closing the door gently behind him.
"Hello, Ms. Amara," he said, his voice measured, carefully neutral. "I was hoping to speak with you briefly."
She straightened just a little, out of habit more than strength, gesturing lightly toward the chair across from her.
"Okay... you can have a seat," she said, her tone polite, professional but softer now, worn down by the day. "What is it?"
He sat. But the words didn’t come immediately. For the first time since he walked in. He hesitated.
"Raymond?" she prompted, her brows drawing together slightly. He opened his mouth. Closed it again. And that hesitation... she misread. Of course she did. Because to her, he was just an employee.
One more person trying to hold things together. "What is it?" she asked again, this time with a gentler edge. "Is it about your pay?"
A small pause. "If you need an advance, you can speak to Janet," she added, already shifting into problem-solving mode despite her exhaustion. "She’ll help you sort it out."
She thought he was struggling. That this was about money. Something simple. Manageable. Fixable. But Raymond didn’t respond.
Not immediately. Because standing in that quiet office, with the door closed and the noise of the world shut out. This wasn’t about money. Not even close. Raymond shook his head quickly.
"No... It’s not about money."
His voice was steady, but there was something underneath it, something quieter, more careful. He sat forward slightly, his hands coming together as if grounding himself before he spoke again.
"First of all... I’d like to apologize," he said. "For the last time. I realize I might have crossed the line, touching your belly... feeling the baby kick."
The words hung in the air. Amara didn’t react immediately, but something in her posture shifted, subtle, almost instinctive. Not anger. Not even discomfort.
Just distance. A reminder. She nodded once. Acknowledgment. Nothing more.
Raymond exhaled softly, then continued, his tone shifting into something more personal, but still carefully measured.
"The thing is... I have a wife. Well... we’re separated for now." A pause. "And she’s carrying my child."
Amara’s gaze flickered for a second, but she said nothing, letting him speak. "She won’t let me get close to her," he went on, his voice tightening just slightly. "So I guess... I got carried away."
Another pause. Then...."I wanted to ask... since you’re also pregnant... what should I get her? What do pregnant women mostly like... and all that. If it’s not too much to ask."
It sounded simple. Harmless. Even a little unsure. The kind of question an employee might ask a boss whom they respect.
Amara leaned back slightly into the couch, her hand resting again on her stomach, her expression thoughtful but guarded.
"Well... it varies from every woman," she said calmly. "The best thing is to ask her. Or at least try to understand what she needs."
Her tone remained professional, gentle, but not inviting anything deeper. "And just be there for her," she added after a moment. "Or do what you can."
A small pause. Then, softer. "But... congratulations." Her eyes met his briefly.
"I hope you’re able to fix things with her." It was sincere. But distant. A kindness given out of character, not connection. And that was enough. More than enough.
Because the look that followed, quiet, composed, but unmistakably final, said everything she didn’t need to say out loud.
This conversation was over. Raymond saw it. Understood it. And for once. He didn’t push. He nodded, standing slowly. "Thank you," he said.
Simple. Controlled. Then he turned and walked toward the door. No hesitation. No lingering. But as he stepped out and the door closed softly behind him. The weight of that conversation stayed with him.
Because she had answered him like a stranger. Like a man with a life she didn’t belong to. And in doing so. She had unknowingly drawn a line he wasn’t ready to accept.
The day should have ended in relief. It should have felt like victory. The storm had been faced. The damage contained. The brand, her brand, was still standing.
But as the sun dipped lower and the office lights dimmed one by one, Amara felt none of it. Only the aftermath. Only the questions. Only the quiet, creeping certainty that this wasn’t over. Not even close.
—
Most of the staff had gone home, their earlier excitement fading into tired satisfaction. The building that had been alive with panic and then celebration now sat in an uneasy calm.
Empty desks. Muted screens. Echoing footsteps. Only a few remained. Janet, still tying up loose ends at her desk. James, waiting patiently by the entrance, ever watchful.
And Amara. At the center of it all.
She stepped out of her office slowly, her movements careful now, the exhaustion no longer hidden behind adrenaline. Her bag rested lightly on her shoulder, one hand instinctively brushing her stomach as she walked.
"Everything’s secured for tomorrow," Janet said softly, offering her a reassuring smile.
Amara nodded faintly. "Go home, Janet." No argument. Just understanding. Janet gathered her things and left, casting one last glance back before the doors closed behind her.
The evening air greeted Amara as she stepped outside, cooler than expected, carrying with it the distant sounds of the city winding down. James moved ahead, already opening the car door.
"Careful, ma’am," he said, his voice steady, protective as always. Amara followed, but then. She stopped.
Mid-step. Something. No. Someone.
Across the dimly lit edge of the shop, just beyond the reach of the main lights, a figure stood. Her breath caught. Her eyes narrowed slightly, trying to make sense of the shadow.
And then. Recognition hit. Not clear. Not confirmed. But enough. Enough to ignite something sharp inside her chest. Anger. Cold. Sudden.