I didn't look back again. That would have been a crack in the porcelain, a sign of weakness. Instead, I turned, composed as ever, and walked toward the voice calling my name. My assistant, Anna, was waiting by the glass doors of the conference room, tablet in hand and brows furrowed as if she were preparing for a siege.
"We're five minutes behind," she said, her voice clipped. "The investors from S-Country are already seated."
"Let them wait," I replied calmly, taking the tablet from her.
She gave me a knowing look but didn't argue. I walked into the boardroom and stepped right back into the life I'd built a world of steel and sharp edges, where I knew every line, every beat, every possible outcome. Here, I wasn't just a woman at least not in the way the world defined the word. I was a force. Clean, efficient, lethal. I had bled to earn that respect, and I wore it like a shroud.
The meeting went flawlessly. I spoke, they listened. My proposal was airtight, the numbers leaving no room for debate. By the time we shook hands, I already tasted the win.
But as I walked back to my office, my heels clicking a rhythmic, predatory beat against the marble, something felt... off. It was a subtle shift in gravity. A tightness under my skin. The echo of something I hadn't felt in years: distraction. I closed my office door, leaning my back against the wood, and let out a long, slow breath.
His face flickered in my mind again. It wasn't just his features, it was his stillness. That irritating, unshakable calm. He was a match waiting to be struck.
Damn it.
I sat at my desk and forced myself to work. Numbers. Projections. Risk assessments. These were the languages I spoke fluently. But I found myself reading the same paragraph three times before realizing I wasn't absorbing a single word. That "Sunshine Boy" was occupying too much space in a mind that was supposed to be a fortress. It wasn't planned. It wasn't controlled. And I hated things I couldn't control.
That night, I didn't leave until ten. The parking garage was a cavern of concrete, the only sound the low hum of fluorescent lights. My phone buzzed as I reached for my car door. A message from my mother.
"You never call anymore. I suppose you're too important now."
I didn't respond. I hadn't responded to the last five either. It wasn't that I didn't want to talk to her, I just didn't want the weight that came with her voice. The cold expectations. The ever-present reminder that even as a CEO, I was never quite enough. "You have a reputation to maintain, Oriana," she'd say. As if I didn't know. As if I hadn't spent my entire life crafting that reputation like a suit of armor.
I wasn't always this way. Once, a lifetime ago, I believed in connection. I had trusted someone once fully. I gave them access to the softest, most hidden parts of me. And he had shattered it. He wasn't just a colleague, he was a partner I thought I could build a vision with. He stole everything clients, ideas, secrets and he had smiled while he did it. Since then, I'd lived by one rule: no one gets close enough to draw blood. Not again.
The next few days were a choreographed lie of normalcy. The firm he worked for was on a different floor, and our companies weren't collaborating. It should have been easy to forget him. It wasn't. Every time the elevator doors slid open, a part of me tensed, expecting to see that red hoodie or those hazel eyes. When it was someone else, I felt a confusing mix of relief and sharp disappointment.
It was Thursday. Late.
The cleaning crew was a distant murmur down the hallway. I'd just finished reviewing the next quarter's contracts and I was desperate for caffeine. I stood in the office kitchen, waiting for the espresso machine to hiss to life. I stared out the window at the rain, which had returned to claim the city once more. Then, I heard footsteps. I didn't need to turn to know who it was. His reflection appeared beside mine in the glass, blurred by the drizzle outside.
"Hello," he said, his voice a low, warm hum. "We've met a few times now, but I still don't know your name."
I didn't reply. He walked to the counter with an unhurried ease that made me irrationally irritated.
"Do you always hang around after hours?" I asked, my voice cold.
"Only when I need to think."
"You can't do that during the day?"
"It's too noisy. Too... crowded." He glanced at me, his gaze lingering. "You understand that, don't you?"
I hated that he was right. I hated even more that I didn't want him to be.
I sipped my coffee, the bitterness grounding me. "Most people here don't talk to me unless they have to."
He shrugged, leaning against the counter. "Maybe that's why I did."
"Are you trying to be different?"
"No," he said simply. "I just don't like rules that aren't mine."
I turned to look at him then really look. No more reflections. His eyes were sharp, but not cold. There was no fear in them, no flattery. Just a raw, quiet curiosity.
"You don't even know me," I said.
"Not yet."
The words hit me harder than they should have. I set my cup down with a sharp clack. "Be careful."
"Of what?"
"Whatever this is."
He tilted his head, a stray curl falling over his forehead. "Why? Because you're dangerous?"
"Because I'm focused," I corrected. "Because I don't have time for detours. Because people who get too close to me usually regret it."
He studied me for a long moment, then smiled a soft, knowing expression that made me feel seen in a way that was terrifying. "Maybe I'm not afraid of regret."
I stared at him. This was supposed to be a brief, meaningless interaction. But everything about it felt like a beginning. And I hated beginnings; they implied that things were about to change.
He didn't press further. He just nodded and took a sip of his coffee. I left first, claiming I had work to finish. It wasn't a lie, but it wasn't the whole truth either. The truth was, I felt a stirring in the pit of my chest. Like someone had knocked on a door I'd forgotten how to open.
I returned to my desk, but the silence no longer felt like a sanctuary. It felt loud. I walked to the balcony at the end of the hallway and pushed open the glass door. The air was crisp, smelling of wet asphalt and ozone. I watched the skyline for a long time, then whispered to the wind: "What are you doing, Oriana?"
No answer came. Only the soft hiss of the rain.
That night, I sat on my own balcony with a glass of wine, watching the city breathe under the storm. My apartment was quiet as it always was but for the first time, the quiet felt heavy. "Maybe I'm not afraid of regret." What kind of person says that? A fool? Or someone truly brave?
It scared me that I couldn't decide which one he was. Or which one I wanted him to be.