The boardroom emptied in calculated silence, the kind that came after decisive meetings where no one wanted to appear rattled.
Asher gathered the presentation outline Lutte had left behind, slipping it neatly into a leather folder.
That was when Anthony Von Lux—one of Emberborne's most prominent voices, a veteran whose words carried weight in every sector they touched—approached with deliberate steps.
His presence was commanding, his silver hair gleaming under the recessed lights, his tone smooth as tempered glass.
"You were right to deny him," Anthony said without hesitation. "Associating Emberborne with a venture like his? It would degrade our name in the eyes of our key patrons. The elite don't want frugal utility—they want prestige."
Asher was quiet, his face unreadable.
He let Anthony's words settle, measured them against his own thoughts. At last, he spoke, voice calm but firm.
"His proposal has flaws," Asher admitted. "It doesn't fit our current target audience, nor the image Emberborne has built."
He paused, his gaze sharpening as though he were looking past the walls of the room.
"But the points he raised… those are areas we will need to address. If Emberborne is to become more than a symbol of status—if we are to endure beyond prestige—we will need to consider them."
Anthony studied him for a long moment before giving a curt nod, lips thinning. "Pragmatic as ever," he said, though whether it was approval or warning, Asher couldn't quite tell.
"Excuse me," Asher replied with a polite bow of his head. He didn't linger for Anthony's parting thoughts.
The day pressed on.
He attended board meetings, navigating with his usual precision, every word calculated, every gesture calm.
He combed through datasets personally, his sharp eyes catching inconsistencies before they became failures.
He visited labs and product testing floors, performing quality checks not because he doubted his engineers, but because he demanded nothing short of perfection.
By evening, he was in a crowded ballroom under a cascade of chandeliers, mingling with clients whose smiles were as polished as their champagne flutes.
Every conversation was a subtle game of leverage, positioning Emberborne as indispensable yet elusive. He played his role flawlessly, his composure unyielding.
But when he finally returned home—late, tired, the quiet of his modest house wrapping around him like a blanket—he slipped off his suit jacket and rolled up his sleeves.
The silence begged for something gentler.
In the kitchen, he baked. Puff pastry, golden and delicate, filled with blueberry cream.
The motions calmed him, precise and meditative: fold, roll, cut, fill. The oven's hum was a lullaby.
And yet, as he arranged the pastries on a plate, his mind betrayed him.
It wandered back to the man who had stood across from him that morning, eyes alight with conviction, grin reckless even in the face of denial.
Lutte Valdes.
The third meeting.
Asher stared at the pastries cooling on the counter, his lips pressing into a thin line.
Why had he given him his personal number? He didn't hand out such things carelessly—he never did.
And yet, there it was, written in Lutte's possession.
He exhaled slowly, tasting the faintest hint of blueberry on his tongue.
"Careless," he muttered. But the truth lingered in the back of his mind, unsettling and undeniable.
But, it hadn't felt careless at all.
The buttery sweetness of blueberry cream lingered on Asher's tongue when a sudden chime broke through the quiet.
His personal phone.
Not the company line, not the emergency secure channel—that one.
He froze, pastry still in hand, brows furrowing.
The ringtone wasn't one he'd assigned.
Unknown.
His steps quickened across the kitchen tiles, down the hall, into the living room where the device vibrated insistently on the glass coffee table.
But by the time he reached it, the screen went dark.
Missed call.
Asher stared at the display, his reflection faint in the black screen.
His pulse, usually calm, betrayed him with a faint stutter.
Then the phone lit up again—same number, unknown.
For a moment, he hesitated.
What if it was a stranger, some security breach, something reckless slipping past his filters? Or—
The thought cut sharp. Or what if it was him?
He inhaled deeply, settling composure over himself like a cloak, then answered. "This is—"
"Asher! Uh—hi. Um, okay, this is kind of rude of me." Lutte's voice tumbled out, awkward, a little too fast.
"I mean, you gave me your number, and I didn't even message first, just called out of the blue, which—yeah, probably terrible etiquette. Honestly, I was nervous you'd just ignore the call, but I thought… no harm trying again. And, uh… glad I did."
The corners of Asher's lips curved before he even realized it.
A private, rare smile.
He let his voice slip into cool steadiness. "You're fortunate I was about to answer anyway—so I could track the number, confirm its origin, and hand it to my security team to evaluate whether the caller was a threat."
There was a beat of silence, then a burst of hearty laughter. "You really know how to make a guy feel welcome, Asher. Security first, huh? I like that. Extreme, but admirable."
"Of course," Asher replied smoothly, though his smile hadn't left.
From there, the conversation meandered—first into safer waters, a touch of the mundane: the day's busyness, the curious calm of late nights, the books each had lying unfinished on their nightstands.
It was easy, surprisingly easy.
The cadence of Lutte's voice filled the spaces where Asher usually allowed silence to reign.
Then Lutte pivoted, tone light but curious. "By the way… the matcha cookies. They were on my counter last night. Balanced flavors, surprisingly good. Where'd you get them?"
Asher allowed the pause to linger just a second longer than needed before answering, his tone even.
"I baked them."
On the other end of the line, there was silence.
Then a small, flustered intake of breath, followed by nothing—just the faint sound of Lutte pausing, struck.
Asher let it stretch before adding, as though to diffuse the moment,
"Tonight, I baked puff pastries. Blueberry cream filling." He glanced at the half-eaten one on his plate. "I'm eating one now."
"That… sounds heavenly," Lutte said softly, almost under his breath, as if the image alone was enough to sway him.
Asher shrugged instinctively, then remembered it was invisible over the phone. "Perhaps next time, I'll bake some for you."
The line went still again, then brightened with Lutte's warm reply: "Then I'll be looking forward to it."
Asher glanced at the time on his watch, but Lutte spoke first. "It's late, isn't it? I should let you rest. Goodnight, Asher. Sweet dreams."
The words landed with unexpected weight, brushing against Asher's composure like a spark against silk.
He answered quietly, steady but tinged with something warmer. "You too."
The line clicked off.
Asher lowered the phone, staring at the silent screen.
He rose with deliberate calm, as though he hadn't just been shaken by the simplicity of a phrase.
Yet, as he prepared for bed, brushing off his suit of composure piece by piece, he couldn't push the echo from his mind.
Sweet dreams.
He slipped beneath his covers, eyes closed, but the thought refused to leave.
His chest tightened, not with unease—but with the unfamiliar warmth of something dangerously close to longing.