Collin
The air in my office was thick with the sterile scent of air conditioning and the faint, lingering aroma of jasmine tea. A scent that shouldn't have been there. It was a ghost from a past life, a memory clinging to the plush leather of my chair like a spiderweb. Cereus.
She stood there, ramrod straight, a picture of professional composure in her crisp black pantsuit. Her voice, cool and measured, droned on about the upcoming Hope Foundation Charity Gala. But all I could hear was the silence of that fateful night, the deafening echo of her words that had shattered everything.
Six years. It felt like a lifetime and a blink of an eye all at once. Six years since the phone call, the shattering screech of tyres against asphalt, and the sterile hospital room with the pungent smell of disinfectant. Six years since the darkness descended, a suffocating cloak that had stolen my breath, my dreams, my very soul.
My parents. Gone. Just like that. A car accident, they said. A freak incident. But there was a hollowness in their explanation, a dissonance that gnawed at me. Wei Lin, the driver, vanished after the crash. A ghost in the machine, a loose thread in the tapestry of grief.
Then there was Leo. My little brother, adrift in a sea of grief, his laughter replaced by the rhythmic click of buttons as he retreated further and further into the world of video games. It took months of therapy, sleepless nights, and a reservoir of patience I never knew I possessed to coax him back to the world of the living.
And me? Collin Reeves, the once-optimistic dreamer who craved a quiet life as a math professor, became the CEO of Wusan Conglomerate at a tender age. The youngest in the company's history, they called me. A prodigy thrust into a battlefield of hungry stockholders, vultures disguised as family, their eyes glinting with avarice.
I navigated the cutthroat world of business with a cold, calculating efficiency. The warmth that once resided in my heart had been replaced by a steely resolve. Grief, they say, manifests in strange ways. Mine had morphed into an insatiable hunger for success, a desperate need to prove myself worthy of the legacy thrust upon me.
Cereus' voice snapped me back to the present. The file on her desk, neatly labeled "Hope Foundation Gala," mocked me with its normalcy. This woman, who had once held my heart in her delicate hands, now treated me like a file folder, another item on her to-do list. Did she feel nothing? No remorse for the words that had carved canyons in my soul?
"Mr. Reeves?" she prompted, a flicker of something – annoyance? – in her otherwise impassive eyes.
I forced a smile, a cold, metallic thing that felt foreign on my lips. "Everything looks in order, Ms. Lilian. Thank you for your efficiency."
She inclined her head in a curt nod, her gaze lingering on me for a fraction of a second before she turned to leave. Just like that, she was gone, leaving behind the ghost of jasmine tea and a thousand unspoken questions.
The silence that followed her departure was deafening. I stared out the window, the cityscape of Hyderabad a blurry mess through the haze of my emotions. Was this truly all she felt – indifference? Or was it a carefully constructed facade, a mirror reflecting my own stoicism?
A knock on the door startled me. "Big Brother," Leo's voice came muffled through the wood. "Got a minute?"
I took a deep breath, pushing aside the thoughts of Cereus. My brother needed me. He needed the stoic CEO, the rock he could depend on. With a forced smile, I said, "Come in."
Leo entered, his usual vibrant energy dampened, replaced by a quiet weariness. He slumped into the chair opposite me, his eyes shadowed.
"You okay, Leo?" I asked, the concern genuine.
He shrugged. "Just another nightmare. That same one."
The car crash. The one that haunted him like a malevolent spirit. I closed my fist around his, offering silent comfort.
"We'll find him, Leo," I said, my voice a low growl. "Wei Lin. And when we do, we'll get some answers."
He managed a faint smile. "Yeah. We will."
We sat in silence for a while, a silent communion of grief and a shared determination to find some semblance of peace. My thoughts, however, drifted back to Cereus. The hurt lingered, a festering wound beneath the callus of my forced indifference.
Later that evening, after Leo had left, I found myself scrolling through old photographs on my tablet. There she was, beaming at the camera, her eyes sparkling with a youthful joy that felt like a lifetime ago. We were at the beach, a spontaneous weekend getaway before the world turned upside down. Her hand was tucked in mine, and the warmth of that memory flooded me, a stark contrast to the cold reality of the present.
A wave of anger washed over me, momentarily eclipsing the grief. How could she be so...unmoved? Did those shared moments, the whispered promises, the laughter echoing through empty streets, mean nothing to her? Or was her composure a mask, just like mine?
The silence in the office felt suffocating. I needed a distraction. Grabbing my jacket, I headed to the rooftop. The cool night air was a welcome balm against the simmering rage within me. The cityscape shimmered below, a glittering tapestry illuminated by a million twinkling lights.
As I gazed at the cityscape, my phone buzzed. It was a text from Leo. "Hey, just got home. Dinner today night? You in?"
A small smile played on my lips. My brother, with his goofy sense of humor and unwavering loyalty, was a beacon of light in the darkness. "Sure, thing, kiddo. What's on the menu?"
"Pizza and video games. You down?"
A chuckle escaped my lips. "Wouldn't miss it for the world."
The next evening, the aroma of pepperoni pizza filled the air of my apartment, drowning out the sterile silence that had become its constant companion. Leo, sprawled on the couch, was already battling an alien invasion in his latest video game. I joined him, the familiar rhythm and button-mashing action offering a strange sense of comfort.
As we played, stories tumbled out. Silly childhood memories, dreams we'd once shared – a quiet life by the ocean for him, a quaint bookstore surrounded by the comforting scent of old paper for me. Dreams that had been sacrificed on the altar of responsibility and grief.
When the pizza was gone and the virtual aliens vanquished, I found Leo sprawling across the sofa. His brows were furrowed in thought.
I straightened them, hoping it would not be another nightmare. I covered him with a rug, so that he doesn't catch a cold. And after I made my way to sleep, my thoughts drifted back to Cereus.
The next morning, I was greeted by a meticulously organized calendar with Cereus' smiling face plastered on the cover – a promotional image for the Hope Foundation Gala. A ghost of a smile played on my lips. Perhaps, having her as my personal assistant wasn't so bad after all.
As the day progressed, Cereus maintained her professional demeanour. Every interaction felt like a carefully choreographed dance, each movement calculated, each word measured. Yet, there were subtle shifts in her gaze, a fleeting touch of something akin to regret flitting across her eyes whenever our eyes met.
Finally, the day of the Gala arrived. I found myself dressed in a tuxedo, the luxurious fabric a stark contrast to the comfort of my usual jeans and T-shirt. The ballroom buzzed with an electric energy – a sea of high society faces, clinking champagne glasses, and glittering jewelry.
Cereus, dressed in a stunning emerald green gown that accentuated her curves, stood at the entrance, checking guests in with an efficiency that belied the nervous flutter in her eyes. When our eyes met, a jolt of electricity ran through me, a jolt that surprised me with its intensity.
"Mr. Reeves," she said, her voice a low murmur. "Everything is under control."
I nodded, unable to tear my gaze away from her. "Good work, Ms. Lilian."
There was a beat of silence, charged with unspoken emotions. Then, a voice cut through the tension – a woman with a perfectly coiffed bob and a nose that looked like it had been sharpened for a duel.
"Collin, darling! So good of you to finally grace us with your presence."
The shrill voice belonged to Aunt Beatrice, one of the vultures I mentioned earlier. I forced a smile, the mask slipping effortlessly into place. "Beatrice, always a pleasure."
Before I could get drawn into a conversation I desperately wanted to avoid, Cereus stepped forward. "Excuse me, Mr. Reeves. But Ms. Thompson has arrived."
I nodded gratefully. Beatrice's laser focus shifted to the woman she'd interrupted, and I used the opportunity to escape.
Throughout the evening, my gaze kept drifting towards Cereus.
She moved with a practiced grace, guiding guests, and ensuring the smooth flow of the event. Yet, beneath the professionalism, I couldn't help but sense a simmering tension, a flicker of nervousness in her hurried movements. Maybe it was just me projecting my own turmoil onto her.The speeches began, droning on about the importance of charity and philanthropy. It felt hollow, a performance for the cameras and overflowing champagne glasses. My gaze kept flitting back to Cereus, who stood at the edge of the stage, her hand resting on a podium, her eyes fixed on the speaker.The crowd jostled around us, a cacophony of hushed conversations and tinkling silverware. Reaching the edge of the stage, I cleared my throat.Her head snapped up, and for a fleeting moment, the years seemed to melt away. Her eyes widened, a flicker of something akin to surprise – or perhaps something deeper – crossing their depths. Then, just as quickly, the professional mask returned."Mr. Reeves," she said, her voice cool and even. "Is there anything I can help you with?""Actually," I began, my voice rougher than I intended, "I was wondering... how about we talk?"