The chandelier in the boardroom hummed with a low, rhythmic vibration that only I could hear. It wasn't the electricity. It was the static of my own blood the "Solis Hum," as my mentor Noel likes to call it. It’s the sound of a ticking time bomb wrapped in a tailored Italian suit.
"The acquisition of the Vane Group is non-negotiable, Ethan," Damien Cortez said, leaning over the mahogany table. He tapped a gold pen against the glass. Tap. Tap. Tap.
I stared at the pen. With every click, the air in the room grew heavy, like the atmosphere before a lightning strike. I felt the familiar itch at the back of my neck. My curse didn't care about market shares or hostile takeovers. It cared about proximity. It cared about the fact that Damien, my longest-standing business partner, was currently standing three feet away, radiating a dangerous level of "friendly concern."
"Sit down, Damien," I said, my voice as flat as a dial tone.
"I'm just saying, the board is worried about your... isolation," Damien continued, oblivious to the frost forming on the edges of his water glass. "You haven't been seen in public for three weeks. People are talking. They say you’re sick."
"I’m not sick," I replied. I’m a hazard. "I’m focused. Sit. Down."
As he moved to pull out his chair, his cufflink snagged on the edge of the table. A simple accident, right? Not in my world. The wood groaned. A hairline fracture appeared in the mahogany, racing toward Damien’s hand.
I stood up abruptly, knocking my own chair back to break the circuit of energy. "The meeting is over. Get out."
Damien blinked, startled. "Ethan, we haven't even discussed the—"
"Out!"
He scrambled to gather his papers, looking at me with a mix of pity and frustration. That was the look that stung the most. He left, and as the heavy double doors clicked shut, the vibration in the room died down. The glass on his water tumbler shattered silently, the shards falling inward.
I sank back into my chair and covered my face with my hands.
Twenty-eight years old, I thought. And I’m already a ghost in my own building.
My office is a fortress. Triple-paned glass, grounded copper wiring hidden in the walls to bleed off the magical static, and a strict "no-touch" policy for any staff. It’s a lonely way to run a multi-billion dollar empire, but it keeps the body count at zero.
My phone buzzed. A text from Jap.
Jap: Hey, Ice King. I’m downstairs. Don’t tell security to tase me. I’m bringing ‘The Cure’.
Ethan: If 'The Cure' is another one of those crystals you bought from a tourist trap in Cebu, I’m firing you from our friendship.
Jap: It’s better. It’s caffeine. And I’m bringing the new marketing intern to carry it because I have carpal tunnel from being your only friend.
I groaned. Jap—Jasper Morales—was the only person who knew exactly how dangerous I was and still insisted on making fun of me. He claimed his "naturally chaotic aura" acted as a lightning rod for my curse, but I suspected he was just too stubborn to die.
A few minutes later, the door chimed.
"Enter," I said, adjusting my tie and slipping on my mask of corporate indifference.
Jap bounced in, looking entirely too bright for a Tuesday. Behind him, however, was someone I hadn't seen before.
She wasn't carrying the coffee like a subservient intern. She was holding the tray like it was a shield, her dark hair pulled back in a messy bun that defied the company’s strict grooming code. She was wearing a blazer that looked two sizes too big and a pair of yellow sneakers that screamed 'I don't belong here.'
"Ethan Solis, meet Mika Dela Cruz," Jap announced, grinning like a Cheshire cat. "Mika, meet the man who hasn't smiled since the Great Recession."
Mika stepped forward, and I felt it instantly.
Usually, when someone new enters my orbit, the air feels thin or cold. But as she approached, the "Solis Hum" didn't intensify into a warning. It shifted. It became a low, melodic thrum—like a radio station finally finding its frequency.
"Mr. Solis," she said. Her voice was bright, lacking the practiced tremor of fear I was used to hearing from my employees. "I’ve heard a lot about you. Mostly that you’re a vampire, but you look remarkably tan for someone who lives in a coffin."
I froze. No one spoke to me like that. "Miss... Dela Cruz?"
"The one and only," she said, stepping closer to set the coffee on my desk.
"Stop," I snapped.
She halted, one hand hovering over the mahogany. She looked at me, her eyes—a deep, curious amber—narrowing. "Is the desk lava? Did I miss a memo about the desk?"
"Keep your distance," I said, my heart beginning to race. My pulse was a dangerous thing; if it spiked too high, the lightbulbs in the room would start to pop. "Just leave the tray and go."
Mika didn't look offended. She looked... intrigued. She tilted her head, her gaze sweeping over me, lingering on the way my hands were gripped tightly to the armrests of my chair.
"You're shaking," she noted softly.
"I’m busy," I countered.
"You're lonely," she shot back, her tone surprisingly gentle. She didn't move away. Instead, she reached out and placed a single sugar packet on the edge of the desk, sliding it toward me.
The moment her finger made contact with the wood, a spark—bright and blue—leapt from the desk to her fingertip.
"Ow!" she yelped, pulling her hand back.
I stood up, panicked. "Are you hurt? I told you to—"
"I’m fine, I’m fine," she laughed, shaking her hand out. "Man, you really need to check the carpeting in here. The static electricity is insane. Do you rub balloons on your head before I come in?"
I stared at her. The spark should have been enough to bruise her, or at least blow out her phone. But she was just standing there, grinning, completely unharmed.
"Jap, take her out," I commanded, my voice strained. "Now."
"Alright, alright, don't get your billionaire panties in a twist," Jap said, sensing the real tension beneath my anger. He grabbed Mika by the arm. "Come on, Mika. I’ll show you the breakroom. They have those donuts you like."
"Nice meeting you, Mr. Solis!" Mika called out as she was dragged away. "Maybe next time we can try a high-five! Or a de-magnetizing bath!"
The door shut.
I collapsed back into my chair, my chest heaving. I looked down at the sugar packet she had slid toward me. It hadn't moved. It hadn't caught fire.
I reached out, my fingers trembling, and touched the paper. Nothing happened. No sparks. No shattered glass. Just the lingering, impossible warmth of her presence.
I picked up my desk phone and dialed the private line for Noel Ramirez.
"Noel," I said as soon as he picked up. "Something happened."
"Did you kill a delivery driver again, Ethan?" the old man asked, his voice gravelly and tired.
"No," I whispered, looking at the door where Mika had vanished. "Someone touched the field. And she didn't break."
There was a long silence on the other end. "Interesting. Perhaps the stars are tired of watching you suffer, Ethan. Or perhaps they've just sent you a more interesting way to die."
I hung up, the amber glow of Mika’s eyes burned into my mind. For the first time in ten years, I wasn't just afraid of my curse.
I was afraid of how much I wanted to see her again.