C4 Trapped in Glass Walls
The small conference room felt like a cage.
Floor-to-ceiling glass on two sides looked out over the open marketing floor, where dozens of curious coworkers pretended to work while stealing glances. The blinds were only half-closed—thin slats casting striped shadows across the polished table. The air smelled faintly of fresh coffee from the machine outside and the sharp, lingering trace of Logan’s cologne that seemed to follow him everywhere.
Skylar stood just inside the door, arms crossed tight over her chest, tablet still clutched in one hand. She hadn’t sat down. She wasn’t planning to.
Logan closed the door behind him with a soft click that sounded too final. He didn’t move toward the table. Just leaned back against the door, blocking the only exit, arms folded to mirror hers. The rolled-up sleeves of his white shirt stretched over his forearms, showing tattoos, the Rolex watch catching the light every time he shifted.
For a long moment, neither spoke.
The silence stretched, thick and heavy, broken only by the distant hum of printers and muffled phone calls from the floor outside.
Skylar’s pulse thrummed in her ears. She hated how aware she was of him—how tall he’d gotten, how broad, how the boyish softness she remembered had been carved away into something sharp and dangerously male. She hated even more that her body noticed.
Finally, he broke the quiet.
“Twelve years, Skylar,” he said, voice low, rough around the edges. “ Twelve years, and you never once tried to reach me.”
Her head snapped up. Anger flared hot and instant.
“Me?” she hissed, stepping forward without thinking. “I was thirteen, Logan. My mother dragged me out of bed in the middle of the night and threw me in a car. I begged her to let me say goodbye. I begged to leave a note. She wouldn’t.”
His jaw flexed. “You could have found a way later. A phone call. An email. Something.”
“I didn’t have your number memorized!” she shot back, voice rising before she caught it. She lowered it again, aware of the glass walls. “We were kids. I didn’t know your email. I didn’t even know your dad’s company name back then. And by the time I was old enough to search… you were already Logan Blackwood, billionaire CEO, splashed across every magazine with a different woman every week.”
Something dark flickered in his green eyes.
“So you did look me up.”
Skylar’s cheeks burned. “Once. Years ago. And I saw what your life had become. Parties. Models. Headlines. You looked like you’d moved on just fine.”
He pushed off the door, closing the distance in two slow steps. Not touching her—just close enough that she had to tip her head back to hold his gaze.
“You think I moved on?” His voice dropped even lower, dangerous. “You think I forgot the girl who disappeared and left me thinking she was dead half the time?”
Skylar’s throat tightened. “You didn’t look very heartbroken in those photos.”
A bitter laugh escaped him—short, sharp. “You believe everything you read in tabloids?”
“I believed you’d keep your promise,” she said quietly. The words slipped out before she could stop them.
His eyes darkened. He leaned in slightly, voice barely above a whisper.
“I was fifteen, Skylar. Fifteen. I spent months calling every friend we had. I rode my bike to your old house every weekend hoping you’d come back. I begged my dad to hire a private investigator—he refused. Said kids move on. So I waited. And waited. Until one day I realized waiting was destroying me.”
Skylar swallowed hard, old hurt rising like bile.
“So you became this instead,” she said, gesturing at the expensive suit, the watch, the entire building around them. “Cold. Untouchable. Screwing your way through half of Manhattan.”
His mouth twisted. “Don’t pretend you know me.”
“I don’t,” she admitted. “Not anymore.”
Another beat of silence.
Outside the glass, she saw a coworker walk by, glance in, then hurry away. Heat crawled up her neck. This was her first week. Rumors would spread like wildfire.
Logan noticed too. His gaze flicked to the blinds, then back to her.
“This isn’t the place,” he said finally.
“Then why corner me here?”
“Because I needed to see if it was really you.” His voice roughened. “And now that I know it is… I don’t know what the hell to do with that.”
Skylar’s chest ached in a way she hadn’t felt in years.
She took a step back, needing space. “There’s nothing to do, Logan. We’re not kids anymore. We work together now. Let’s just… keep it professional.”
He stared at her for a long moment, something unreadable flashing across his face.
“Professional,” he repeated, tasting the word like it was poison.
Then, without another word, he reached behind him, opened the door, and walked out.
Skylar stood there alone, heart racing, the faint scent of cedar and smoke still hanging in the air.
Her phone buzzed in her pocket.
A new calendar invite.
From: Logan Blackwood
Subject: Daily Project Briefing – 8:00 AM tomorrow
Location: My office
She stared at the screen.
He wasn’t letting this go.
Not even close.
