Anthony pov
The room was too bright, too white, too damn polished. Like someone had tried to bleach the humanity out of it.
I sat beside my father in a tailored suit that fit better than I felt in it. His business partners laughed at things I didn't find funny. The air smelled like perfume, coffee, and greed.
And then she showed up.
Sienna. Blonde, with sleek hair down to her waist, eyes too blue to be real, and a voice that lilted like she knew how dangerous it was. She smiled at me like I was dessert and took the seat right beside me, legs crossed, perfume too loud.
"So," she said, brushing imaginary lint off my jacket, "you're the elusive Anthony. I thought your dad was making you up."
I gave her a polite nod. "Wish he was."
She laughed, clearly expecting me to laugh too. I didn't. I glanced at her perfectly painted face, then back to my water glass.
She leaned in. "Are you seeing anyone?"
I blinked slowly. Camila. I saw her in flashes—wild curls, stubborn smile, that playful glint in her eye when she teased me. Camila who called me her "driver" Camila who smelled like honey and lavender, Camila whose voice could quiet a storm.
"Yeah," I said. "I am."
Sienna's smile faltered. "Oh."
My father caught the exchange and raised a brow. After the meeting, he pulled me aside.
"You handled that well ," he said. Just like that. it shook the ground under me. "You Keeping it professional. Shows maturity and strength."
I stared at him for a second, wondering who possessed the man I knew. "Thanks."
He nodded. "Now to fix this catering disaster." He grumbled
I noticed his unease and did what my 'hobby" thought me to do
One of his partners had botched the dinner plans—wrong vendor, bad food. Total mess. I stepped in, took control of the kitchen, directed the remaining staff, altered the menu with what we had. And by the time the guests were seated, they were raving about the 'rustic spin' on the meal.
There was only one seat empty a partner that was running late aperantly
When the chaos quieted, I slipped out through the back, texted Camila.
On my way. Can't take any more fake smiles. Save me.
Camila met me on the porch in slippers and a hoodie that was clearly mine.
Her curls were tied up, loose strands framing her face. She looked like home.
I exhaled for what felt like the first time all day.
"Hey, Driver," she grinned. "Rough day?"
I slumped against the doorframe. "You have no idea."
We walked to the kitchen, where her mom had left out tea and cookies. I filled her in—Sienna, the food rescue, my dad's weird moment of human emotion.
Camila laughed so hard she snorted, which only made me feel better.
"And then," I said, "he actually said he was proud of me. For being 'professional.' I think I blacked out after that."
She leaned into me on the couch, her hand warm on my thigh. "You should be proud of yourself, Ant."
My heart stuttered a little. No one called me that but her. I liked the way it sounded coming from her lips.
I turned serious. "Honestly... I think I've been tense because my mom's death anniversary is coming up. Everything just feels heavier lately. But spending time with your mom? It reminded me of mine. She was always gentle like that."
Camila squeezed my hand. "She'd be proud of you too."
"And I love it," I added. "That name you call me. 'Driver.'"
She smirked. "Told you it'd stick."
I pulled her closer. "You stuck."
She kissed my cheek, and for the first time that day, the weight lifted.
Precela – POV
I was running late. Again.
Camila kissed my cheek as I grabbed my keys.
"Don't wait up," I told her, straightening my blazer. "It's just that late lunch meeting I told you about."
She nodded. "Drive safe, Mama."
There it was—her softness, the same gentleness I once had before time and business hardened my edges. I ruffled her curls. "Don't eat all the cookies."
She grinned. "No promises."
As I pulled into the parking lot of the hotel hosting the late meeting, I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror and sighed. I looked tired. The kind of tired no concealer could fix.
I stepped out, heels clicking on the pavement, adjusting my blouse as I walked quickly toward the conference room. I was mentally rehearsing what I'd say—about the new funding proposal—when I saw a tall figure slipping out the back.
For a second, I thought I was imagining it.
Anthony?
It couldn't be. But the walk, the shoulders, the way he moved—hurried and familiar.
I stopped in my tracks.
What was he doing here?
And why was he leaving?
I dismissed it and huried inside I had missed the formalities not that it mattered much dean filled me in. he also explained how his son saved the day
I wish I could get Camila to come with me some times ,but this wasn't her thing and I wouldn't force it on to her
Not in a million years
She had the clothes for the occasion just not the personality , I laughed to my self while pretending to listen to these
Power hungry vultures talk
I wanted to go home but formalities
Called