Morning came like it always did with precision, silence, and steel edges.
The alarm chirped at six. I rose without hesitation, without thinking, my body running on habit as clean and rigid as clockwork. Black silk robe. Bare feet across cold marble. The glass of water on the nightstand emptied in three slow swallows.
Routine is the spine of my life. It's what keeps everything upright, what keeps chaos where it belongs outside the perimeter of me.
And yet, as I moved through the motions, I could feel it. The crack in the armor, hairline but widening.
I brushed my teeth, fixed my hair, pulled on the tailored graphite-gray suit that fit me like it had been carved from shadow. It should have felt like armor. It always does. But this morning, something was wrong. The fabric lay against my skin like an expectation I didn't choose.
I caught my own eyes in the mirror. Dark. Composed. Unyielding.
But I could hear the echo of his voice. That lightness. The kind of sound that doesn't belong in my world and yet it's in my head, threading through the silence like a secret I can't shake.
I turned away, hard enough that my hair brushed across my cheek. Work. That's the answer to everything.
The office greeted me with its usual gleam of order glass walls, steel accents, the quiet hum of efficiency. My assistant handed me a folder and a coffee, both of them exactly as I like: strong, no sugar, no mistakes.
"Oriana," she said carefully, "this came in this morning."
She held out an envelope. Real paper, heavy stock, my name written in a slant of silver ink.
I didn't take it right away. Something about the weight of it made the fine hairs on my arms rise.
"What is it?"
"The gala in the gallery district. They finalized the guest list. You're one of the keynote figures."
Of course I am. The sponsorship runs through my company. I've been on their board for years.
So why did the sound of *gallery district* feel like a match striking in the dark?
I took the envelope. It was cool against my fingertips, but it might as well have burned.
"Thank you," I said. My voice was even. Perfectly even.
She left.
I sat down and slit the envelope open with a letter knife sharper than some people's intentions. Inside: an invitation etched on ivory card, all elegant serif fonts and subtle embossing. My name gleamed in raised ink.
**Saturday, 8 p.m.**
I set it down, facedown, like that would make it disappear.
The day moved in fragments after that. Meetings blurred together, words spilling in neat corporate patterns while my mind looped in dangerous circles.
I told myself it wouldn't matter. The city is vast. Even if he lives near that district, it doesn't mean he'll be there. And even if he is...
I stopped the thought before it could bloom.
Control. That's what I'm built on. The moment I start surrendering to impulse, I become everything I swore I'd never be: weak, reckless, breakable.
And yet.
By six, the office was emptying out. People left in clusters, laughter spilling down the hallways. I stayed, as I always do, letting the silence settle like armor.
But when I opened my bag to slip the invitation inside, I caught myself tracing the embossed letters with my fingertip.
Not weakness, I told myself. Just awareness.
The lie tasted thin.
Saturday arrived with surgical precision, slicing the week clean in half.
The day should have been like any other errands, emails, a long review of next quarter's projections. And for a while, it was.
Until the clock hit six-thirty.
I stood in front of my closet, rows of black, gray, white the palette of power. Any of these would do. They always do.
I reached for a black satin gown with a high neckline and long sleeves. Severe. Untouchable. Perfect.
But my hand hesitated.
A few hangers down, something glimmered a deep wine-red dress I'd bought on impulse months ago and never worn. It wasn't like me. Too soft in places, too fluid in its lines.
I should ignore it.
Instead, I slid it out, held it against me. The color bled into the mirror like a secret blooming.
For a long time, I just stared at my reflection.
Then, before I could think my way out of it, I put it on.
The fabric whispered as it settled against my skin. It wasn't armor. It was… something else. Something dangerous.
My throat tightened. I hated that part of me, some small, traitorous part wondered what he would think if he saw me like this.
I added diamond studs. Neutral makeup. A scent so faint it barely existed, except in the places someone would have to lean close to find.
And then I hated myself for that thought, too.
The gala was a blur of light and glass, the air warm with the hum of money and art and whispered power. People turned as I walked in, their gazes brushing like fingertips. Compliments spilled like champagne poised, polished, meaningless.
I moved through it all like a blade through silk. Smiling when required, speaking when necessary.
But beneath it, my pulse was a drumbeat.
I told myself I wasn't looking for him. That I didn't care.
The lie shredded the moment my eyes skimmed the crowd for the fifth time in as many minutes.
And then I saw him.
Across the room, near a canvas awash in violent color. He wasn't in a suit like the others. Dark slacks, an open collar, no tie. His posture loose, like he belonged everywhere without trying.
He hadn't seen me.
That should have been a relief. It wasn't.
Something in my chest twisted, sharp and sweet.
I turned away before he could look up, forcing myself into a conversation with a patron whose name I didn't register. Words fell from my mouth in perfect order. My face wore the right expression.
But every nerve was angled toward that one point across the room.
I didn't go to him. Of course I didn't. That's not who I am.
Instead, I stayed exactly where I should be center stage, immaculate, untouchable.
And yet, as the night wore on, I felt it happening. The crack widening. The air changing. The weight of a decision I haven't made pressing against my skin like a storm waiting to break.
By the time I left, the city felt different. Or maybe I did.
In the car, I sat in silence, the lights streaking past like molten gold. My hands were steady on the wheel, but inside…
Inside, I was unraveling.
When I reached home, I didn't turn on the lights. I stood in the dark, the dress still clinging to me like a secret.
I told myself nothing had happened. That nothing would happen.
But deep down, I knew the truth.
It had already begun.