When the World Stopped

Four years later, the ghost I had spent forty-eight months trying to bury rose from the dead on live television.

Harper barged into our shared office with frantic urgency, her heels clattering against the laminate floor in a rapid rhythm. She didn't drop her handbag onto the coat rack. She didn't acknowledge the stack of glossy mockups on the edge of her desk. Instead, she pointed the remote control toward the wall television like a weapon, stabbing the power button repeatedly until the screen flickered to life with her favorite celebrity gossip broadcast.

Harper kept her back turned to me, her shoulders stiff beneath her cardigan. “Genevieve... It’s... It’s true.”

I reluctantly pulled my eyes from the digital layouts glowing on my tablet. I had spent two hours reviewing spread designs, praying for a quiet afternoon before our department head demanded another progress report. Harper remained frozen before the screen, a piece of her blonde bob stuck against her cheek. She was normally obsessed with entertainment drama, but the anxious tremor in her voice set off warning bells in my head.

I raised my eyes to the television.

The bold chyron scrolling across the bottom edge hit me with the force of a physical blow: Cassian Vane IS Engaged.

My breath caught in my throat. A sharp, suffocating pressure clamped down on my lungs as the world around me slowed to a dead stop. Beneath the headline was a photograph of Cassian. He wore a tailored black suit, his chiseled face carved from stone, his dark hair styled back with precision. His piercing, emotionless eyes stared straight through the lens, stripped of any warmth. It was the same cold face that had haunted my memories every single night for four years.

My chest locked tight. Four years of silence, four years of forcing myself to breathe normally whenever his name surfaced in family conversations, and now his face dominated an international news broadcast.

Sensing my paralysis, Harper rushed forward and wrapped her arms around my trembling shoulders in a protective hug. I sat rigid in my chair, my fingers gripping the edges of the tablet until the plastic casing creaked under the strain.

Harper tightened her grip around my neck, her voice dropping to a fragile register. “I’m sorry, Eve. I saw the pop-up notification on my phone during lunch and assumed it was fake. I came back to confirm it on the news. I hoped it wasn't true.”

I blinked at the screen and forced my voice into an even tone. “It’s fine. Why are you acting so weird?”

Harper pulled back slightly, her hands resting firmly on my shoulders as she searched my face. “Girl, drop the act. It’s not fine. Look at you. Cassian is fucking engaged. How did that even happen?”

“I don’t know, Harper. I assume he asked and she said yes.” I kept my gaze level, refusing to let my mask slip.

Harper released my shoulders and dropped onto her haunches so our eyes were level, her long knit dress sweeping the floor around her boots. “You wish him the best? Are you crazy? It’s been four years, Genevieve. Four years! And you’ve treated that night like a taboo. Why?”

“Nothing happened. I told you what happened back then—I kissed him, he politely declined, and asked me to go home.” I spoke in a flat monotone, clinging to the sterile half-truth I had repeated for forty-eight months.

Harper shook her head, the concern in her brown eyes sharpening into fierce scrutiny. “And I don’t think that’s it. You walked into my apartment that night looking like you had been torn apart. Why have you refused to talk about him or to him?”

“He moved back to Russia, remember?” I crossed my arms tightly over my ribs. “There was nothing left to discuss.”

Harper leaned closer, her voice tight with frustration. “Genevieve, you know that isn’t the point—”

The sharp, rhythmic click of stiletto heels echoed outside the frosted glass door, cutting Harper off mid-sentence.

Monica, our assistant chief editor, swept into the office without knocking. She wore a tailored royal blue suit, her dark hair pulled into a high ponytail that dragged her eyebrows upward. She held a black leather folio under her arm and sneered openly at us, taking in Harper on the floor and the television screen still blaring tabloid headlines.

Monica stepped into the center of the room, her voice firm and condescending. “I assumed your lazy tendencies were getting better, but of course that’s never true. The layout edits are due in ninety minutes, and you are squandering billable corporate hours on trashy celebrity tabloids.”

Harper rose to her feet and smoothed down her skirt with deliberate calm. “The edit is not due for another hour and a half, Monica. We are aware of the schedule.”

Monica turned her glare toward my desk, her chin raised. “You are watching gossip news and conversing on paid time. I don’t think you will have the work ready. If this department misses print, your names will lead the reprimand list.”

The raw ache in my chest collided with the throbbing behind my temples. Four years of bottled-up grief and suppressed rage flared to the surface, and my frayed temper snapped under the pressure.

I sat upright and looked Monica straight in the eye. “Then you can come for this pep talk when we fail to deliver. Till then, give us time to work.”

Monica recoiled. Her jaw parted slightly, caught off guard by the venom in my voice. I usually endured her petty scoldings in silence, preferring to stay invisible beneath corporate radar. For a second, she looked ready to argue. Instead, she tightened her grip on her folio.

“It better be ready on my desk.” Monica muttered the words before beating a hasty retreat down the hall.

Harper turned toward me, her lips parting to speak.

I held up a hand before she could utter a single word. “Please, not now. We’ll talk about it some other time.”

Harper nodded in understanding, swallowed her questions, and returned to her desk. She woke her computer screen, though her eyes kept flicking back to me with silent worry.

I turned my attention back toward the television screen.

The broadcast had transitioned to a glossy feature on Cassian’s new fiancée. The camera zoomed in on a high-fashion portrait of Natalia Sokolov. The scrolling graphics beneath her name outlined her status: an elite Russian fashion model, heiress to an oil conglomerate, and the daughter of an influential political figure.

She was breathtaking in an intimidating, aristocratic way. Razor-sharp cheekbones sculpted her pale face, flawless skin set off her blonde hair, and full, sculpted lips rested in an effortless pout. Every photograph displayed her draped in designer silks, walking European runways, or attending galas in Moscow.

The contrast between her glamorous perfection and my unremarkable life felt like an insult. She belonged in his world of wealth, power, and prestige. I was just an editorial assistant in a London office, drowning beneath deadlines and haunted by the memory of his rough hands gripping my waist against an apartment wall.

The piercing chime of my mobile phone sliced through my spiraling panic. The device buzzed against the wooden desk, its screen glowing with an incoming call.

I glanced down and saw the caller ID: my older brother, Weston.

Taking a steadying breath, I swiped the screen and brought the phone to my ear. “Weston?”

Weston sighed into the receiver, sounding worn down to the bone. “Little girl. Still at work?”

“Yes, just finishing up the layouts. What’s up?” I kept my voice calm, wondering why he called during the afternoon.

Weston cleared his throat. “Our engagement party is next week. You’re still coming, right?”

I swallowed the bitter bile rising in my throat. Weston had proposed to Camilla three months ago, and every reminder of their upcoming celebration made my stomach churn. Camilla played the part of the elegant socialite, but I knew what lay beneath the curated smiles. I despised her down to the marrow of my bones for the calculated cruelty she had inflicted four years ago—the toxic manipulation that had pushed me into Cassian's apartment that terrible night.

Yet Weston loved her. He looked at her with an open, trusting devotion that broke my heart, and I could never bring myself to wound my brother by revealing the truth.

“Yes, I am. I already promised you I wouldn’t miss it.” I forced the reassurance past the tight lump in my throat.

Weston released a heavy breath of relief. “Thank you, Genevieve. Seriously. Finally, we’re all going to be together like old times.”

I pulled my eyebrows together as a chill settled over my skin. “What do you mean by ‘we’?”

Weston chuckled, unable to hide his excitement. “Cassian agreed to come.”