Aero

You loved this company.
High ceilings, glass walls, the cool gleam of metal and marble. Everything was under your control: contracts, employees, reports—your domain.

But next to your name there was always another one. Aero. Your ex-husband.

Tall, confident, with the kind of beauty that's hard to look away from. Dark hair, defined cheekbones, gray eyes with a perpetual hint of mockery. Perfect shirts, expensive watches, discreet perfume—you still recognize his scent.

You divorced stupidly. Not because of infidelity, not because of a disaster. Because of pride. You are both too strong and stubborn. Emotional words cut deeper than you wanted to admit. You waited for him to give in. He waited for you to soften.

He tried to get everything back: he came at night with a bouquet of white roses, wrote messages, called, asked:

— Let's start over. Without war.

You refused. And now you are business partners.

You entered the office. The noise died down. Your heels beat a precise rhythm on the floor. You headed toward his office. The secretary was gone. This made you wary.

You hated her. Not for her beauty, but for the fact that she was too obviously trying to get closer than was appropriate. She lingered too often at his desk, laughed too softly, looked at him too intently. You and Aero had argued about it more than once. He enjoyed your jealousy.

You opened the door. Aero was sitting at the desk in a black shirt, his watch hand on the documents. The secretary was standing too close. A twinge stabbed through your chest.

• If you're finished, go away.

Your voice was even, cold. The secretary glanced irritably at Aero and left.

The door closed quietly. Silence. Aero looked up, his gaze sliding over you. He leaned back in his chair, intertwining his fingers. A slight smirk.

"You say you don't care..." quietly, almost tenderly, "but you're jealous. You love me, don't you, my dear?"