Page 38 of Closer Than You Think
“For now?” I prompt, curiosity piqued despite the unease that coils within me.
“For now you need to eat.”
I laugh and agree, as my stomach growls with perfect timing.
I can't help but feel drawn to Silas, this man shrouded in darkness yet offering me light. There's a story behind those scars, a depth to him that calls to something deep inside me. And I know then, with a certainty that thrills as much as it terrifies, that unraveling Silas Thatcher might just become my most dangerous endeavor yet.
I shower in the en suite bathroom, dressing in a sweater and leggings that have been purchased in just my size, apparently.
Silas's hand rests lightly on my back, guiding me out of the bedroom and into the vast expanse of his penthouse. The cool touch of his fingers seeps through the fabric of the shirt. I follow him down a corridor lined with abstract paintings, each stroke on the canvas as deliberate and complex as the man beside me.
“Breakfast is served,” he announces, gesturing toward a dining area that seems to float above the city itself. The room is bathed in morning light, the sun casting golden hues across a table adorned with an array of dishes that could easily feed a small army. Fresh fruits glisten alongside platters of pastries and eggs, the aroma mingling with the scent of rich coffee.
“Did you prepare all this?” I ask, taking a seat and admiring the spread before us.
A hint of amusement flickers across Silas's features. “I have people for that. But I did make the coffee. It's an art form I've mastered.”
We eat in comfortable silence at first, the only sounds being the clink of silverware and the distant hum of the city awakening below. Then, as if on cue, we begin to peel back the layers of our lives, trading stories between bites.
“Teaching must be rewarding,” Silas says, sipping his coffee with a thoughtful expression.
“It is,” I reply, my heart swelling with pride. “There's something magical about watching a student's understanding blossom.” I pause, considering him. “And what about you? I don’t even know what you do.”
The corners of his lips twitch, but a shadow crossing his eyes. “Private security. Technically.”
“What does that mean? Technically?”
“Let's just say I wear multiple hats. It was a natural progression from my military days. Order from chaos,” he says, his tone carrying an edge that suggests the topic is closed for now.
As breakfast concludes, Silas stands and offers his hand. “Shall I give you the grand tour?”
I nod, placing my palm in his. His grip is firm, reassuring. He leads me through a living space that rivals any luxury showroom, pointing out artworks and artifacts collected from around the world. Each piece has a story, a memory etched into its existence, much like the scars hidden beneath his clothes.
“Your life is like a museum, Silas. Curated, mysterious,” I observe, taking in the calculated elegance of his domain.
“Perhaps,” he concedes with a contemplative tilt of his head. “But museums are meant for the public. This . . . ” He waves a hand around the penthouse, “ . . . is my fortress.”
We pass through a series of rooms until we reach one secured by a biometric lock. With a press of his thumb, the door opens to reveal a control center bristling with screens and equipment, a stark contrast to the refined opulence elsewhere.
“State-of-the-art security,” Silas explains, his voice echoing slightly in the sterile room. “It's essential for my . . . business dealings.”
“Business,” I repeat, the word feeling inadequate for the gravity of what surrounds us. I watch the screens flicker with images of the city, Silas's watchful gaze ever-present. “You see everything from up here.”
“Almost everything,” he corrects, his eyes locking onto mine. “The important things, anyway.”
I'm torn between awe and a creeping sense of unease. To live with such vigilance, always looking over one's shoulder—it's a world away from my own. Yet, there's a part of me that can't help but admire the precision, the control Silas wields over his environment.
“Come,” he says, breaking the spell. “There's more to see.”
Reluctantly, I tear my gaze away from the surveillance hub, wondering what other secrets lay hidden within these walls.As Silas leads me away, I realize that while the city sprawls out beneath us, teeming with life, I am caught in the orbit of Silas Thatcher—a man whose mysteries run as deep as the foundations of this very building.
He leads me down another hall to a set of mahogany double doors.
“This is my library.” Silas ushers me into a world of leather-bound spines and the musky scent of aged paper. The room is a sanctuary, the kind of place that speaks to introspection and learning, and I can’t get enough. A fire crackles in the hearth, casting a warm glow on the dark wood panels, and for a moment, I forget the labyrinth of steel and glass that cages us high above Alcott City.
“Your fortress has many layers, Silas,” I say, my voice hushed, almost reverent. “This might be my favorite one yet.”
He nods, a shadow flickering across his features, and gestures to a pair of deep armchairs. “It's one of the few places I can think . . . reflect.”
