Erin stepped into the dimly lit bedroom and stopped short.
There was a new bed.
It wasn't just any bed—it was a queen-sized one, carefully placed at a reasonable distance from Xander's. Its navy-blue bedding was neatly folded, the pillows fluffed with military precision.
She didn't need a label on it to know who had arranged it.
Her eyes lingered on it for a moment. She blinked once, then again, willing away the strange tightness in her chest.
Xander had gotten her a bed.
Everything that had happened lately was strange—athe dance, the suffocating elevator ride, his arm around her, his voice whispering comfort—he had gone and done something kind again. No words. No smug remarks. Just the quiet action of someone… considerate.
No. She shut that thought down fast.
It didn't matter.
She turned her head away and walked past the new bed like it didn't exist. She curled up on the couch, wrapping herself in her usual blanket. Her body ached from tension, her mind heavy with too many thoughts. The silence of the room swallowed her whole.
She stared at the ceiling long after the lights dimmed. She didn't sleep so much as drift—unrestful, always on edge, her mind taunted by memories she refused to revisit.
The panic from the elevator clung to her like a second skin. She kept hearing the creak of the walls, the silence of captivity, the cold metal closing in on her eight-year-old self. Alone. Crying. Forgotten. The smell of rust and damp walls and her mother's voice, frantic, just before the light poured in after two days.
She hadn't screamed then. Just like now. She hadn't made a sound.
The habit of silence stuck. And maybe it was better that way.
When morning came, a soft chime of sunlight filtering in through the windows, Erin peeled herself off the couch with aching muscles. The new bed was still untouched. The sheets pristine.
She didn't regret it. She couldn't allow herself to.
A short knock at the door startled her, but it was just a maid informing her that breakfast was ready. Erin quickly freshened up, changed into the standard mansion staff attire—neat, formal, impersonal—and headed downstairs. No light sarcasm or scathing wit either.
Just silence and straight posture.
She entered the dining room to find Xander already seated, scrolling through his phone with one hand and sipping his coffee with the other. His suit was crisp, his expression unreadable. But the moment she stepped into the room, he looked up. And stared.
"Morning," she said smoothly, voice neutral.
"Morning," he replied, cautiously.
She pulled out the chair opposite him and sat without another word. When the food came, she ate quietly, eyes focused on the plate. She didn't meet his gaze once. No snide remarks about his controlling diet choices. No sarcastic bite about how he probably micromanaged the chef's seasoning ratios.
Xander stared at her like she'd grown a second head.
"Something wrong?" he asked, finally.
She looked up. Blinked once. "No, sir."
That "sir" seemed to have hit him harder than she expected.
He frowned, and she could see the questions forming behind his eyes, but he said nothing else. She didn't volunteer anything either. She simply finished her breakfast, gathered the dishes, and walked away.
The rest of the day unfolded like clockwork. Erin did everything she was expected to do—laundry, calls, preparing the conference room for Xander's meetings, making tea precisely the way he liked it. She didn't once slip or delay.
But not once did she tease him. Not once did she challenge him with narrowed eyes or that signature lopsided smirk. Not once did she call him by his name. And Xander noticed. Every time.
Xander didn't usually pay attention to the energy people carried into a room.
He noticed patterns, efficiency, loyalty—traits that kept the company functional, not emotional fluctuations. But today, something was undeniably off, and it followed Erin around like a ghost.
She wasn't sulking. She wasn't moody.
She was… neutral. Too neutral.
Mechanical.
She hadn't even blinked at the new bed. He'd expected a sharp remark. A smirk. A sarcastic "I didn't know you were capable of decency." Something. Anything.
But she hadn't said a word.
And worse? She hadn't slept in it.
He'd woken up that morning, turned toward the sound of the shower running in her side of the suite, and noticed the bed untouched. That damn couch had been used instead, as always. A perfectly decent bed, and she still chose to curl up like a stray mutt.
What was she trying to prove? That she was stubborn? Distant?
Or maybe she just didn't want to accept anything from him.
That irritated him. Not because she rejected his gesture, but because he didn't understand why. Last night had been… strange. She stormed off and he doesn't know why. She won't be that unreasonable and get mad over that, right?
And for a second, for the tiniest moment, he thought maybe this was only temporary and she's just blowing off some steam. Apparently not.
She'd reverted into cold professionalism overnight, and it was messing with his head. The Erin he knew would have mocked his wardrobe choices, argued with him about whether tea should have sugar, and tossed around words like "dictator" and "closet man-child."
But today?
She didn't even look him in the eye.
She followed orders. She completed tasks. She answered questions with "yes, sir" and "understood."
And that "sir" was driving him insane. She had never really called him by his name but sir was way too… He doesn't know. He just don't like the sound of it.
"Erin," he called at one point, after a late lunch when she was reviewing his meeting schedule.
"Yes, sir?"
"Stop that."
She paused. "Stop what?"
"That."
She raised an eyebrow—finally, some expression—but it was muted. Civil. Hollow.
"I don't follow."
"You're acting like a stranger," he said, more sharply than he meant to. "Drop the robotic act. If you've got something to say, say it."
"Weren't we always strangers. There's nothing to say," she replied calmly. "I'm just doing my job.
That stung more than it should have.
She walked away before he could press further, and for the rest of the afternoon, he watched her from his office as she went about her duties like she was auditioning for sainthood.
By 6 p.m., he couldn't take it anymore. He stood from his desk, about to head downstairs and confront her—really confront her—when his phone rang.
A single glance at the caller ID drained the tension from his muscles and replaced it with urgency.
Restricted line.
He picked up immediately. "What?"
The voice on the other end didn't waste time. "It's happened. They have surrounded us already. We need you here. Now."
His heart stopped for half a beat. "Where?"
"North wing. Fifteen minutes."
"Understood."
He hung up and moved.
No time to change. No time to inform anyone. He bolted from the office like a man possessed.
He didn't notice Erin watching him from the hallway, eyes narrowing as she saw him sprint past the butler and disappear out the front door without a single explanation.