Morning light slithered into my bedroom like an uninvited guest, too bright for the storm still rolling inside me. I stared at the ceiling, the pattern on the plaster swimming into strange shapes. All I could hear was the echo of last night, the music, the clinking glasses, the laughter of people who belonged in that world of chandeliers and polished smiles. And him.
I hated how clear every detail was. The way Skillar's presence seemed to disarm the room without trying. The way his smile felt like sunlight breaking through heavy clouds. And worst of all, the way I caught myself leaning toward him like someone desperate for warmth.
Pathetic.
I turned my head, spotting my phone on the nightstand. Black screen. Blessed silence. No missed calls, no texts. Good. That was good. I didn't need him in my life, and the universe seemed to agree.
I sat up, hair falling into my face, and pushed it back with both hands. A headache pounded at the base of my skull. Wine and too many thoughts are a terrible combination. The dress from last night was still draped over the armchair, glittering faintly in the morning light like a cruel joke. That wasn't me. The woman in that dress wasn't me. She was a stranger who laughed a little too easily, who let her guard slip in the space of a single conversation.
Never again.
I walked to the bathroom, stripped, and turned the shower on cold. The water bit into my skin, grounding me in the only way I knew how. The shock was punishment and control wrapped into one. My life had no room for chaos, no room for distractions. Especially not the kind that looked like Skillar effortlessly confident, bright enough to make you forget how heavy the world can be.
I closed my eyes under the spray, letting the water drown out everything. But memory is cruel. His voice broke through anyway, soft but sure, when he'd leaned in and asked, "Why do you look like you're somewhere else?"
Because I always am. Because being here feels dangerous.
By the time I stepped out, wrapped in a towel, I had rebuilt the walls in my mind. Layer by layer, like a fortress. This was my world. My rules. And I'd promised myself: nothing and no one would pull me off course. That promise was the only thing that kept me moving when life had tried to break me.
My phone buzzed.
I froze.
For a second, my breath snagged in my throat. No reason for that, I told myself. It could be anyone work, my assistant, the endless stream of people who wanted something from me. But the truth was, a part of me knew. Even before I reached for the phone, I knew.
Unknown Number: "Morning, Oriana. Last night was… unexpected."
The screen blurred for a second. I blinked hard, blaming the steam curling around the bathroom. Unexpectedly. That was an understatement. My fingers hovered over the screen like they didn't belong to me. Delete it. That's what a sensible person would do. Delete the message, block the number, pretend none of this happened.
Instead, I set the phone down like it burned me.
And then I did what I always do when something shakes me, I worked.
By noon, my office was a battlefield. Stacks of files towered on the desk, emails flooded my inbox, and my team had scheduled back-to-back meetings. Normally, that kind of pressure made me feel alive. It reminded me why I fought so hard, why I built this empire brick by brutal brick. Success was oxygen. I needed it to survive.
But today, everything felt… hollow.
I sat through a presentation about a potential merger, nodding at all the right places, asking sharp questions, but half my mind was somewhere else. On one line of text glowing on a screen: Last night was unexpected. His voice wrapped around the words in my memory, warm and steady.
"Ms. Vale?" My assistant's voice cut through my thoughts. "Should we proceed with the next proposal?"
"Yes," I said, too quickly. "Bring it in."
Control. That was the key. Control the room, control the conversation, control yourself. That's how you win. That's how you survive in a world that waits for women like me to trip, to bleed, to break.
I refused to break.
The day bled into evening, and still, the message sat unanswered. I told myself I was ignoring it. That not replying was the same as shutting the door. But every time my phone buzzed with something else, my pulse jumped, hoping, fearing.
By the time I got home, the sky was bruised purple and gold. I dropped my keys in the bowl by the door and leaned against the wall for a long moment, eyes closed. Silence pressed in like a weight. My apartment had beautiful sleek lines, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city but it felt like a glass box. Empty. Untouched.
I kicked off my heels and walked to the window, staring out at the skyline. Cars crawled along the streets below, tiny points of light in the dark. I wondered if he was out there somewhere. If he was looking at the same sky, thinking about the same night.
Stop.
I turned away, pacing. This was dangerous. Skillar was dangerous not because he wanted to hurt me, but because he made me want things I had no business wanting. Soft things. Stupid things. Like laughter that doesn't feel rehearsed. Like someone who sees you and doesn't flinch.
I poured myself a drink, scotch neat, and sank onto the couch. The glass was cool against my palm, the burn of alcohol sliding down my throat. For a while, I just sat there, letting the city hum fill the silence.
And then, because I'm weak or maybe because I'm human I picked up my phone.
The message was still there, patient and sharp as a hook. I typed: It was. Then deleted it. Typed again: Don't read too much into it. Deleted that too. My thumb hovered, heart pounding like I'd run a marathon, and finally, I set the phone facedown on the coffee table like it might explode.
This was ridiculous. I didn't even know him. Not really. A handful of conversations, a few glances that felt heavier than they should, and suddenly, I was acting like some… lovesick idiot. That wasn't me. That would never be me.
But when the phone buzzed again soft, almost apologetic I picked it up before I could stop myself.
Unknown Number: "No reply? That's cold. Guess I'll take it as a no."
My chest tightened. A no to what? A no to… possibility?
I should have let it go. I should have tossed the phone across the room and walked away. Instead, I typed one word before I could stop myself.
Me: "Busy."
I stared at the screen, horrified. Then the three dots appeared.
Unknown Number: "Fair. But being busy doesn't last forever."
I swallowed hard, fingers curling into fists. He didn't know me. He didn't know that for me, being busy was forever. Busy was survival.
And yet… I didn't delete the conversation.
Hours later, I lay in bed, staring at the ceiling again, just like this morning. Only now, the silence was heavier, filled with things I couldn't name. I thought about my promise, the one I'd carved into my bones when the world showed me its teeth. I thought about the girl I used to be, the one who believed in magic and trust and forever, and how that girl died a long time ago.
So why did it feel like some part of her was stirring, restless, refusing to stay buried?
I rolled over, grabbed my phone, and opened the message thread. Two lines. That was all it took to shake me. Two lines and the ghost of a smile I couldn't forget.
I locked the screen and set it aside.
Tomorrow, I told myself. Tomorrow I'll be stronger.
But even as I closed my eyes, I knew the truth: strength wasn't the problem anymore. The problem was wanting something more than strength. And that terrified me.