Day Seven
Day seven dawned under a pale, hesitant sun, as if even the sky was holding its breath. It was Sunday—the final day of the bet—and the eve of Kris Windsor's grandest performance: the Inter-University Business Case Competition. But to Mia, it felt like something more than just the end of a wager. Something was shifting, and she wasn't sure if it was within herself, or between them.
She lay in bed for a long moment, phone pressed against her chest, rereading the message that had woken her:
"Be at the auditorium by 8 AM sharp. Dress code: professional. Today, you are not merely my assistant, Princess. You are my most critical observer.Your final task: observe the entire Case Competition—from setup to final remarks. Your report, detailing every strength and weakness of the event, and my performance in particular, is due to me immediately after the closing ceremony.This is your most important critique yet."
The audacity of it—making her write a performance report like she was an investor or executive—should've annoyed her. But it didn't. Instead, Mia found herself oddly honored. He was letting her in, not just as a helper or a pawn in a silly game, but as someone whose opinion genuinely mattered.
She dressed carefully. Her outfit—a tailored navy blazer over a soft cream blouse and black trousers—wasn't flashy, but it was professional enough to hold her own in Kris's world. Still, when she caught her reflection in the mirror, she had to stop. She barely recognized herself. But maybe that wasn't a bad thing.
By 7:58 AM, she was at the university's grand auditorium.
The transformation was staggering. Yesterday's flurry of volunteers and cables had given way to polished execution. Elegant signage. Precision lighting. Crisp programs laid on every chair. The air buzzed with adrenaline and quiet, urgent whispers in multiple languages. Student teams gathered in tight circles, rehearsing pitches. Judges reviewed notes with furrowed brows. Deans sipped coffee with polite detachment.
And at the center of it all: Kris.
He moved with seamless authority, one earpiece in, phone in hand, a sleek black binder under one arm. He was dressed in a dark charcoal suit, immaculately tailored, his usual swagger tempered by sharp purpose. He wasn't playing host. He was the host.
"Professor Ling needs the revised itinerary at the west entrance. Now.""Tell Tech Booth to rerun the audio sweep during the lunch break. We're picking up echo in Row F.""Flag team Alpha's deck for backup. Their file corrupted mid-rehearsal."
Mia observed from the wings, and what she saw wasn't arrogance. It was intensity. Command. Focus.
She watched as he bent to help a flustered participant find their presentation clicker, crouched beside the A/V team to recalibrate settings, even discreetly pulled a volunteer aside to offer quiet encouragement when they nearly burst into tears over a scheduling mistake.
And yet, behind all that precision, she saw the tension. The way his jaw ticked when the main screen flickered. The near-imperceptible twitch in his left hand as he scanned the judges' expressions during the keynote. The quiet sigh he allowed himself behind the curtain, when no one else was looking.
He wasn't just running this event—he was carrying it. And somehow, Mia saw it clearly now: this wasn't about ego or prestige. This was about proving something. To someone. Maybe even to himself.
She took notes throughout the day, her artist's eye surprisingly adept at seeing the event's strengths and flaws in composition, pacing, energy. But more than that, she tracked him. Kris, the way he flowed between people and crises, the way his presence steadied a room that teetered on chaos.
He caught her watching once, during a lull between panels, and instead of his usual smirk, he just gave her a small, tired nod. No words. Just acknowledgment.
By the time the final round ended and the winners were announced—amid cheers, handshakes, and photos—Mia felt like she had witnessed something far bigger than a student competition. She had seen the full measure of Kris Windsor. Not just the clever strategist or sarcastic drama lead—but the pressure, the perfectionism, the heart underneath the carefully crafted armor.
As the crowd thinned, Kris reappeared beside her. His tie was loosened, his jacket folded over one arm, and his usually immaculate hair was slightly out of place.
"You survived," he said, voice low. There was a new note in it—not teasing, not commanding. Just real.
"So did you," she replied, handing him the folder she'd been compiling all day. "Here's your report. Seventeen pages. Annotated. Strengths, weaknesses, missed cues, and a suggestion about your judge introductions being too scripted."
He took it, blinking at the weight. "You actually... did it?"
"You said it was my most important critique yet," she shrugged, trying to downplay how seriously she had taken the task. "I figured, if I'm going out, I might as well go out in style."
Kris was quiet for a long moment, flipping through the first few pages. Then, softly: "I never expected you to take this seriously."
Mia met his gaze. "I didn't, at first. But then... I started to care."
That admission sat between them like a secret too big to name.
"I wasn't sure you'd make it to day seven," he said finally.
"I wasn't sure you wanted me to."
Their eyes locked, something raw flickering between them.
The overhead lights dimmed as the cleanup began around them. But neither moved. The week was over. The bet had reached its end. But somehow, it didn't feel like a conclusion.
It felt like something else was just beginning.