I didn't open Skillar's email. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even by the time Monday's meetings bled into Tuesday's strategy calls. It sat there in my inbox like a quiet knock on a door I swore I'd locked. Unread. But not forgotten. I kept telling myself I was busy. That I had bigger things to focus on. The A country expansion. The legal review. The Q4 forecast. But every time my screen lit up, a flicker of anticipation passed through me like a glitch in my code. I was slipping. I didn't like that.
Wednesday morning, I arrived at the office early. Earlier than usual.
Anna wasn't even in yet. The lobby was silent, city lights still blinking outside the glass walls. I walked to the coffee machine, poured a cup I wouldn't finish, and stood by the window as the sun began to stain the skyline with gold. I sipped slowly. I didn't taste anything. Then, against my own will, my eyes dropped to my phone. Still unopened:
Skillar Lennox – "About the presentation"
It had been three days. Most people would follow up. He hadn't. Most people would take the silence as disinterest. He hadn't. He'd left the door open. Quiet. Respectful. Almost like he understood I wasn't ready. Or maybe he didn't care. That thought stung more than I wanted it to. I finally clicked it open at 7:19 AM.
Subject: About the presentation
Oriana,
Thanks for the meeting. I'm glad the direction landed. If there's anything you'd like adjusted, I'm happy to refine.
Separately, if this is overstepping, disregard but I'd like to invite you to a gallery opening this Friday. Nothing formal. Just an event I think you'd enjoy. No expectations. Just light, if you're looking for some.
Skillar.
Just light, if you're looking for some.
I stared at that line for a long time. He didn't ask for dinner. Didn't ask to "catch up." Didn't flatter. Didn't flirt. He just offered… light. I hated how much I wanted to say yes. I didn't respond. Not right away.
Instead, I opened the folder on my desk labeled Santos & Vale Acquisition, my most important strategic move yet. If it closed cleanly, it would secure a foothold in the Latin American tech market. Cement my company's international expansion. Put me in a league beyond what even I had dared to imagine. It had taken nearly a year of preparation. Dozens of meetings. Weeks of due diligence. All led by me. Alone.
I skimmed through the executive summary, but my mind kept drifting. Back to the river. Back to the wind. Back to the feeling of standing on the edge of everything I'd built, wondering what it was all for.
"Not now," I had whispered.
"I still have a promise to keep."
But what if the promise was killing me slowly?
What if it already had?
The last time I'd let someone in, really in, was five years ago.
His name was Marc. He was quiet, thoughtful. A journalist. He made me laugh without trying and didn't flinch at my ambition. But then came the headlines. The subtle jokes in his work. The article about "women leaders using masculine energy to dominate the boardroom." He didn't name me. He didn't have to. He used me. Studied me. Turned me into a case study for his readers. When I confronted him, he said, "It's just business, Oriana. Nothing personal." I learned then what my mother always knew. Love is the most dangerous kind of deal. You give everything, and there's no refund policy. I made a promise that day. Never again. Never let someone that close. Never let someone see the cracks.
By Thursday afternoon, I still hadn't replied. But the email sat open on my screen like it was staring at me. Challenging me. I almost deleted it. Twice. Then, just before logging off, I clicked "Reply."
Subject: Re: About the presentation
Skillar,
I don't attend many gallery events. I prefer quiet over crowds.
But I appreciate the invitation.
Oriana
I stared at the message. Cold. Distant. Controlled. It was exactly how I liked things.Then I hit backspace and deleted it. All of it. I tried again.
Skillar,
I don't usually go to gallery openings.
But maybe I could use a little light.
Send me the time and place.
Oriana
Sent.
The moment I clicked it, I felt a panic surge. Like I'd just stepped off the edge of a rooftop without checking if there was ground below. That night, I pulled the photo out again. The one in the back of the closet. This time, I didn't just stare at it. I brought it to my desk, laid it flat, and let myself look. Really look. My mother's eyes were so tired. But she was smiling. Holding my hand like she believed in something bigger than her pain.
And the girl, me, looked happy. Hopeful. I couldn't remember the last time I'd smiled like that. Or the last time I'd believed in anything other than survival. I traced the edge of the photo, then tucked it into my wallet. Just for the weekend. Just for me.
Friday.
Anna raised an eyebrow when she saw me in the lobby at 6:45 PM.
"You're… going out?"
I shrugged. "It's for networking."
"Is that why you're wearing lipstick and earrings?"
I gave her a flat look.
She grinned and held the elevator. "You'll call if it goes weird?"
"I always call if it goes weird."
She paused. "Are you nervous?"
"No."
That was a lie. But I told it with practiced ease.
The gallery was tucked into a quiet street in Midtown, warm lights spilling through tall windows, soft piano music playing inside. I stepped in, heels echoing against the polished floor. People milled about, murmuring politely over art that blurred between impressionist and abstract. And then I saw him. Across the room, in a simple gray jacket and black slacks. No tie. No show.
Just Skillar.
He turned the moment I looked his way. Like he knew. His smile wasn't wide or dramatic. It was steady. Warm. Real. I didn't walk toward him immediately.
I gave myself a minute to just… exist in that space.
And for the first time in years, I let myself think: Maybe it's okay to want more than silence