The hotel loomed like something out of a design magazine—modern architecture softened with warm lighting and glass walls reflecting the twilight sky. A valet opened the car door as Elara stepped out, coat draped over one arm, her expression unreadable but composed.
Ethan followed, rolling his own suitcase behind him. Neither spoke as they entered, but their pace remained in sync—like they'd done this a hundred times before.
The lobby was hushed elegance. Polished stone floors, tall green plants lining the walls, and a faint scent of bergamot and cedarwood in the air. A tall chandelier glittered overhead, its warm light casting golden reflections on the marble floor.
The receptionist greeted them with a courteous smile, clearly briefed ahead of time. "Ms. Elara. Mr. Ethan. Welcome. Your suites are ready."
"Suites," Ethan repeated under his breath. "Plural. Good."
Elara didn't respond, but a subtle arch of her brow said she caught that.
The staff led them up to the 19th floor, where their rooms were just a short corridor apart. Elara's door to the right, Ethan's to the left.
"Breakfast is served on the 21st floor terrace," the staff member added before leaving them.
For a moment, they stood in silence, facing each other in the hallway. Their luggage was already inside. The corridor was quiet, dimly lit, the city lights visible through the long hallway window behind them.
"You want to go over the pitch once more tonight?" Ethan asked, slipping his hands into his pockets.
Elara's eyes scanned his face, searching. "We already did. It's ready."
He nodded. "Still. Sometimes it helps... talking it through off the screen."
There was a pause. Then a small shrug from her. "Ten minutes."
"Ten minutes," he agreed.
They parted briefly to settle in. Elara's room was all cool tones and soft lighting—glass panels opening to a skyline view, and a lounge area that felt more like a private suite than a hotel room.
When she opened the door again, Ethan was already waiting, holding two steaming mugs of tea from the in-room service.
"I didn't know if you'd want one," he said, offering her the cup.
She took it quietly. "I do."
They sat on opposite ends of the couch, laptop between them, the city glittering behind the sheer curtains. But conversation was easy. Focused. They challenged each other's points, refined transitions, suggested slight tone shifts in the final words of the presentation.
But somewhere in between, the silence between thoughts wasn't so stiff.
At one point, Elara leaned back against the cushion, fingers circling the rim of her mug. "We work well together," she said, not looking at him.
Ethan's voice was steady. "We understand the end goal. That makes things easier."
She turned slightly toward him. "You don't talk much."
"I say what needs to be said."
She looked at him, really looked. "Same."
Their eyes met again. Something passed between them—not heat, not yet—but a kind of mutual grounding.
It wasn't fireworks.
It was something quieter. Something steady.
Eventually, Elara stood. "We'll be fine tomorrow."
Ethan took the cue and stood too. "We will."
She opened the door, and he stepped out.
But just before turning to his room, he paused and looked back.
"Elara."
She looked up.
"You're not what people expect."
Her brow lifted slightly. "Neither are you."
He smiled. Just a flicker. But it stayed with her even after the door closed.
She stood for a moment in the quiet, her fingers brushing the ceramic of the now-cold mug. Something had shifted.
And for the first time in a long time, she didn't feel completely alone in a room full of silence.