I don't remember the last time I made a mistake in a meeting.
But today, I did.
I called the wrong partner by the wrong name. A slip of the tongue—barely noticeable to anyone else—but it hit me like a siren. I've built my entire empire on control. Precision. Being unshakable.
And now I can't stop thinking about a girl who won't even look me in the eyes anymore.
Lyra.
She's everywhere.
In the corner of every room. In the back of my mind when I'm supposed to be negotiating million-dollar contracts. In the silence between words when Elijah says her name too casually, not realizing it burns every time I hear it.
I can't do this much longer.
I've tried to give her space. I've tried to respect lines. But the truth is—I don't know what I'm respecting anymore. Elijah? Our history? My fear?
Because none of it feels stronger than the ache in my chest when I remember the way she looked at me that night.
Like I disappointed her.
Like I broke something I never had the right to touch.
I unlock my phone.
Stare at her name.
It's still there. Still saved. Still untouched.
I type:
"I'm sorry."
Then delete it.
I type again:
"Can we talk?"
Delete.
Try again:
"You didn't imagine it. I felt it too."
Delete.
I toss the phone on the couch and drag a hand down my face. This isn't me. I don't chase. I don't explain. I don't want.
But I want her.
I want her in a way that's messing with every rule I built my life around.
I lean back, staring at the ceiling. The city blinks outside the window—loud, fast, forgettable.
But she isn't.
Lyra is not forgettable.
So I pick up my phone one last time.
No text.
No call.
I don't trust my words.
I get up.
Grab my coat.
And head for the door.
Because I need to see her.
Even if she slams the door in my face.
Even if it's the wrong time.
Even if I don't know what the hell I'm going to say when I get there.