I woke to sunlight, soft and unbothered, trickling through the blinds of the penthouse. The air was quiet, and for the first time in what felt like weeks, I didn't feel that pressing weight behind my eyes. I blinked up at the ceiling, the scent of lemon and herbs still faint in the air, like the echo of last night's dinner clinging to the walls.
Blake had cooked. Not just made food—cooked. A deliberate act. A gesture without strings. And somehow, that quiet act had unraveled a thread inside me I hadn't realized was so tightly wound.
He'd made me laugh.
I pushed myself up from the couch in my own room. We still stayed in separate bedrooms, even now, and I preferred the solitude most nights. It gave me space to think. To breathe. To remember who I was before all this.
After dressing in a soft linen blouse and slacks, I made my way into the kitchen. There were no chefs, no noise, no staff bustling about. Just silence and the memory of grilled chicken and dry wit passed over wine glasses.
I poured a glass of water and leaned against the counter.
What were we doing?
We weren't enemies anymore—not really. But we weren't in love. Not even close. We weren't even pretending now. We were... existing. Figuring things out.
Like old friends rediscovering their rhythm after years apart.
Sarah arrived at the penthouse at nine sharp. Her eyes immediately scanned my expression.
"You look... rested," she said, a hint of surprise in her tone.
"I slept," I replied simply.
She blinked. "Should I prepare a press release?"
That made me laugh, and she smiled, handing over the tablet. "Here's today's schedule. Blake's assistant mentioned the first media appearance for the merged brand is being planned for next week. You'll be expected to co-chair the campaign launch."
"Of course we are," I muttered. "Nothing like branding your business with a barely-wed couple who are figuring out how to coexist."
Sarah raised a brow. "You're not coexisting. You're doing something... else. I've seen the way he looks at you lately."
I frowned. "How does he look at me?"
"Like he's trying to learn a language he always thought was impossible."
That stopped me. I opened my mouth, then closed it.
Blake wasn't just tolerating me. He was trying. And that mattered more than I wanted to admit.
The office was its usual flurry of activity, and yet something inside me had shifted. I was more focused, but not rigid. I listened to my team with more presence. When one of the junior executives made a nervous suggestion during a strategic meeting, I didn't shoot him down. I asked him to elaborate. He blinked, surprised, but explained with shaky confidence. And he was right.
Later, as I sat in my office overlooking Velmora's skyline, I found myself thinking not about profit margins or marketing campaigns—but about last night.
Blake had remembered my favorite wine.
He'd asked me about my cello.
He'd let himself be vulnerable without asking for anything in return.
It would be so easy to dismiss it all. To fold it into a neat box labeled "temporary truce." But something told me I couldn't afford to be that dismissive anymore. Not when he was making it harder for me to hate him.
I took out my phone and stared at our message thread. Nothing since last night. Not even a follow-up. Just silence, polite and respectful.
I typed: Thanks again for dinner. It was... unexpectedly nice.
Then deleted it.
Instead, I typed: Next time, I'm cooking.
Seconds later, the reply came.
[Blake]: Brave of you. Should I keep the fire extinguisher nearby?
I rolled my eyes and smiled.
Maybe this wasn't love.
But maybe it was something worth nurturing.