I didn't look back again. That would've been weakness. So 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 like she was preparing for battle.
"We're five minutes behind. The investors from S country are already seated."
"Let them wait," I said calmly, taking the tablet.
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 sharpness, where I knew every line, every beat, every possible outcome. Here, I wasn't a woman, at least not in the way the world defined it. I was a force. Clean, efficient, respected. And I'd bled to earn that.
The meeting went flawlessly. spoke, they listened. My proposal was airtight, and the numbers left no room for debate. By the time we shook hands, I already knew it was a win.
But as I walked back to my office, heels clicking against the marble, something was... off.
It was like 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 behind me, let out a breath, and stood still.
His face flickered in my mind again. Not just his face his stillness. That irritating calm. That unshakable presence. Like a match waiting to be struck.
Damn it...
I sat at my desk, opened the file I needed to review, and forced myself to read. Numbers. Projections. Risk assessments. These were things I understood. But I read the same paragraph three times before realizing I wasn't absorbing a word. That Sunshine boy was occupying too much space in my mind for someone I hadn't even spoken to. Not good. Not planned. And I didn't like things I couldn't control.
That night, I left the office at ten. The parking garage was mostly empty, the only sounds the low hum of fluorescent lights and the echo of my heels. My phone buzzed as I unlocked the car. A message from my mother. "You never call anymore. 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 it, the cold expectations, the ever-present reminders that I had to be perfect. That even now, even as a CEO, I wasn't quite enough in her eyes. "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 it like armor. I wasn't always this way. Once, a long time ago, I believed in people. In connection. I trusted someone once-fully. Gave them access to the softest part of me. And he shattered it.
The next few days returned to normal or at least, I pretended they did. The firm he worked for was on another floor, and our companies weren't collaborating directly. That should have made it easy to forget him. It didn't. Every time the elevator door slid open, a part of me tensed, expecting to see him. When it was someone else, I felt... relieved. Disappointed. Annoyed with myself. | stayed late at the office. Pushed through meetings, drowned myself in strategy and silence. I didn't realize I was waiting, until he showed up again.
A former business partner. We were more than colleagues, not quite lovers. I was too cautious for that. But I let him into my world. Shared plans. Visions. Secrets. He stole everything. Clients. Ideas. And the worst part? He smiled when he did it. Since then, I made a rule: no one gets close enough to hurt me. Not again.
It was Thursday. Late.
The cleaning crew was working down the hallway. I'd just finished reviewing next quarter's contracts and needed caffeine badly. Our office kitchen wasn't exactly high-end, but the machine made a halfway decent espresso. I was standing by the window, cup in hand, staring down at the rain beginning to fall again. And then I heard footsteps behind me. I didn't need to turn to know who it was. His reflection appeared beside mine in the glass, slightly blurred by the drizzle outside.
"Hello. We met few time, but I still not know your name."
I didn't reply. He Just walked to the counter and started preparing his own coffee, moving with a kind of unhurried ease that made me irrationally irritated.
"You always hang around after hours?" I asked.
"Only when I need to think."
"Can't do that during the day?"
"It's too noisy. Too... crowded."
He glanced at me. "You understand that, don't you?"
I hated that he was right. I hated it more that I didn't want him to be.
I sipped my coffee. "Most people here don't talk to me unless they have to."
He shrugged. "Maybe that's why I did."
"Are you trying to be different?" "
No," he said. "I just don't like rules that aren't mine."
I turned to look at him then. Really look. No more sidelong glances or reflections. His eyes were hazel-sharp, but not cold. There was no fear in them. No flattery either. Just... curiosity.
"You don't even know me," I said.
"Not yet." That shouldn't have hit me. But it did. I placed my cup down.
"Be careful."
"Of what?"
"Whatever this is."
He tilted his head. "Why? Because you're dangerous?"
"Because I'm focused," I said. "Because I don't have time for detours. Because people who get too close to me usually regret it."
He studied me for a moment, then smiled-softly, like he understood something I hadn't said out loud. "Maybe I'm not afraid of regret."
I stared at him. This was supposed to be a brief conversation. Two adults in a kitchen. No meaning. No momentum. But everything about it felt like something beginning.
I hated beginnings. They implied change.
He didn't press further. He just nodded, 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 something I hadn't felt in years. Not butterflies. Not excitement. No. Something deeper. Older. A stirring in the pit of my chest. Like someone had knocked on a door I'd long forgotten how to open. And I didn't know yet If I wanted to answer it.
I returned to my desk, but the quiet no longer felt comforting. It felt loud. Like the walls themselves had started to breathe. I stood, walked to the balcony at the end of the hallway, and pushed open the glass door. The air was crisp. Fresh. I watched the skyline for a long time. Then I whispered more to myself than to anyone else: "What are you doing, Oriana?" But no answer came. Only the soft hiss of rain, returning once again.|
That night, I sat on my balcony with a glass of wine, watching the city breathe under the storm. The rain was soft again. Constant. Below, people rushed through puddles, umbrellas twisting in the wind. Horns. Lights. Movement. My apartment was quiet. Always was. I thought about what he'd said. "Maybe I'm not afraid of regret." What kind of person says that? A fool? Or someone brave? It scared me that I couldn't decide which one he was. Or which one I wanted him to be.