Monday morning arrived like a slap. The alarm went off at 5:30 a.m., and before I'd even sat up, my mind was already moving through the day's schedule. Investor check-in at 8:30. Lunch with the marketing team. A budget review with legal. And the never-ending pile of contracts sitting in my inbox like they were breeding overnight.
I slipped into my tailored navy suit, tied my hair back into a sleek twist, and applied my armor: bold lipstick, diamond studs, and a watch aligned perfectly at my wrist.
By the time I walked into the lobby of Oriana Holdings, I was the version of myself the world knew: calculated, confident, impossible to rattle.
Or so I thought.
"Morning, Ms. Veyra," my assistant, Anna, greeted, following me into my office. "I've prepped the investor brief. Also… there's something unusual you should see."
Unusual was never good in my line of work.
"What is it?" I asked, dropping my bag on the desk.
She hesitated. "We've been approached by a potential partner for the cultural sponsorship program you mentioned last quarter. They want to co-fund the project."
"Alright. Who?"
Anna handed me the file.
The name at the top stopped me cold.
Lennox Gallery.
I didn't have to flip the page to know. My chest tightened as I stared at the logo, sleek black font, a golden line beneath it. Minimalist. Elegant. Just like him.
I set the file down like it was nothing. "Schedule a call with their director for Thursday."
Anna nodded, unaware of the small earthquake happening in my chest. "Already confirmed. He'll be joining the investor lunch on Friday as well."
I didn't respond. I couldn't.
Because here it was the thing I'd been trying to avoid. The reason I hadn't replied to his email. The reason I'd told myself not to look back at that traffic light.
Fate, apparently, doesn't take no for an answer.
The investor meeting came and went without incident. At lunch, I sat in the corner booth of a quiet restaurant with two venture capitalists and Adrian. We talked numbers, projected growth, sustainability metrics. I was in my zone.
Until the door opened.
And there he was.
Skillar walked in like he belonged everywhere. easy posture, an open smile, rain still in his hair from the drizzle outside. He scanned the room, and when his gaze landed on me, something in my chest betrayed me. just the faintest, quickest pulse.
He approached our table. "Oriana Veyra," he said, his voice warm but steady, as if we were old acquaintances rather than strangers who'd shared one quiet moment in the rain. "It's good to see you again."
My lips curved, but not too much. "Mr. Lennox."
"Please," he said, taking the empty seat across from me without invitation, "it's Skillar."
I hated that my name in his mouth sounded softer than I wanted it to.
The lunch shifted. The numbers and projections blurred in the background as his voice threaded through the conversation like a quiet challenge. He didn't push. He didn't flirt. But every time our eyes met, there was something there—curiosity, maybe recognition. Like he saw more than he should.
After lunch, we walked out together, the others trailing behind.
"I didn't know we'd be working together," he said, sliding his hands into his coat pockets.
"Neither did I," I replied, keeping my tone neutral.
"Does that bother you?"
I stopped walking. Looked at him fully for the first time since that night. "I don't get bothered, Mr. Lennox. I get results."
For a moment, his smile faltered, just slightly. But then it returned, slower this time. "Then I suppose we'll get results together."
The rain had started again, thin and cold. I pulled my coat tighter.
And here was the moment, the opening to step back, to redraw the line before it blurred any further.
But I didn't.
Instead, I said, "We'll see."
And I got into my car before I could think about why.
When I reached my office, the file on Lennox Gallery was still on my desk. I should have filed it away. Instead, I opened it.
Somewhere between the glossy portfolio photos and the mission statement, my phone lit up with a new message.
From him.
"If you're free Thursday evening, I'd like to show you something."
No smiley face. No explanation. Just an invitation.
I should have ignored it.
I didn't.
I stared at the glowing words on my screen for longer than I cared to admit.
If you're free Thursday evening, I'd like to show you something.
The simplest of sentences, and yet it felt like a loose thread tugging at the edges of a tightly woven fabric I'd spent years crafting.
I locked my phone, tossed it onto the desk, and buried myself in the next contract review. But the words followed me into the margins of every page. I caught myself rereading clauses twice, my mind circling back to what he could possibly want to show me. A gallery piece? A new installation? Or something more personal?
Ridiculous. I had no time for riddles, no time for someone who didn't fit neatly into the grid of my life.
Still, when I left the office that night, I noticed the rain was heavier now, and for some reason, I slowed my walk to the car. The wet pavement reflected the city lights in fractured colors, amber, red, silver, like a palette spilled by accident. It reminded me of the way his smile had felt in the middle of that rainy intersection, uninvited but impossible to ignore.
I reached my car, keys in hand, but didn't get in right away. My phone vibrated in my coat pocket.
Not another message from him, just an update from my assistant, confirming Thursday's investor call. Business. The world I knew. The world I controlled.
I slid into the driver's seat and sat there, the engine silent. My reflection in the window looked like a woman who had everything under control, sharp lines, clear edges. But I knew better.
Because somewhere in the middle of all that certainty, there was now a single unanswered question.
And I hated unanswered questions.
I drove home, telling myself I wouldn't reply.
But the phone stayed on the passenger seat the whole way.
Just in case.