The night didn't let me go. It held me in a chokehold, pulling me under with every memory of his face illuminated by the city lights, every echo of his voice in the cold air. Skillar. His name is a weight in my mind now, like a stone dropped in still water, sending ripples that refuse to fade.
I didn't sleep, not really. I lay there, staring at the ceiling, counting every hairline crack on the white paint, pretending the rhythmic hum of the heater was enough to drown out the sound of him saying, "You should let yourself breathe sometimes."
God. Breathe?
I've built an entire empire on holding my breath, on tightening control until nothing slips through the cracks. I can't afford oxygen. Not when I know what happens when I let go.
The alarm buzzed at six, slicing through my thoughts. I didn't need it; I was already awake. But I slapped it anyway, just for the satisfaction of silencing something in this world.
Shower. Espresso. Black suit. Neutral lipstick. Perfect hair. The mask slides on as naturally as a second skin. When I look in the mirror, Oriana, the woman who never falters, stares back. She doesn't flinch. She doesn't feel it.
Except she does. God help me, she does.
Because in the deepest part of me, something is cracking.
By eight, I'm in my office, glass walls towering over the city, the skyline stretched like a promise or a warning. My assistant, Leila, hovers by the door with the day's agenda. Her voice is brisk, professional, but there's a flicker of curiosity in her eyes. She senses it. They all do. The tiniest shift in the atmosphere, the smallest tremor in the fault line I've spent years reinforcing.
"Board meeting at nine. Contract review with Azura Tech after lunch. Dinner with the investors moved to Friday. And…" She hesitates, just for a beat. "Your brother called."
Of course he did. Probably wants to remind me again that I'm thirty-two and single and that Mother's health is 'fragile.' As if marriage is a miracle cure for disappointment.
"Tell him I'll call back," I say, smooth as glass.
Leila nods, retreats.
I pull up the Azura contract on my screen. Pages of legal jargon, numbers, clauses my comfort zone. Here, everything makes sense. There are rules. Expectations. I can dominate this world with precision and logic.
But then…
"You look like you've forgotten how to laugh."
His voice slides through my mind like silk against skin.
I grit my teeth and push the thought away. Focus.
Clause 14: Penalty for early withdrawal.
Clause 15: Confidentiality obligations.
Clause…
"What would happen if you stopped running for a minute?"
My fingers freeze on the keyboard.
Dammit.
I shove back from the desk, stand, and pace to the window. The city sprawls beneath me steel and glass, relentless, unyielding. It should calm me. It always has. The proof of what I've built. The empire no one thought I could create.
But today, it feels…empty.
I press my forehead to the cool glass and exhale slowly.
This is what I wanted. The power. The respect. Independence. I fought tooth and nail for this, in a world that salivates at the thought of women failing. I bled for this.
So why does it feel like I'm standing in a fortress with the gates locked and the air thinning?
The board meeting is a blur of numbers and projections. I speak, they nod. I win every argument, dismantle every objection, and still, underneath the sharp edges of my voice, I hear the whisper:
"You can be strong without being alone."
Where the hell did that even come from?
By noon, I'm drowning in work but starving for silence. For peace. For God, no. Not for him.
I eat lunch at my desk, scrolling through reports, when my phone buzzes. Unknown number. Normally, I'd ignore it. Today, my pulse stutters.
I answer.
"Oriana?"
His voice. Warm. Unhurried. Like sunlight pouring through storm clouds.
I grip the phone tighter. "Who gave you this number?"
"Relax," he says, a smile in his tone. "I asked Leila. Nicely. She likes me."
Of course she does. Everyone likes him. That effortless charm, that golden-boy aura that makes people want to spill secrets.
"What do you want?" I keep my voice cool, brittle as ice.
"To thank you. For last night."
"It was just a conversation," I say, too quickly.
"Not to me." A pause, soft but heavy. "I don't get to meet people like you every day."
My throat tightens. I hate that it does.
"I'm busy," I snapped. "Don't call me again."
"Oriana…"
I ended the call. Toss the phone onto the desk like it burned me.
And then I sit there, staring at it, heart pounding like I just ran a marathon.
The rest of the day is a battlefield. My armor stays on, but inside, chaos reigns. Every email feels pointless. Every meeting, hollow. I hear his voice between sentences, see his smile between lines of text.
I should block his number. I should erase him like he never existed.
Instead, when night falls and the city lights flicker on, I find myself standing by the window again, phone in hand, thumb hovering over his name.
Don't.
God, don't.
But my chest aches like I've been holding my breath for years. Like one word from him could shatter the walls I've chained myself inside.
I lock the phone. Drop it on the table. Step back.
And yet, I whisper into the empty room…
"Why can't I stop thinking about you?"
The next morning, I wake up with a decision etched into my bones.
I will not let this man derail me.
I have a goal. A promise I made when I was twenty-two and the world tried to break me. A promise that I would never need anyone again. That I would climb to the top alone, because love is a luxury and luxuries cost too much.
But as I walk into my office and see a small white box on my desk no card, just a single sunflower inside I feel something dangerous unfurl in my chest.
Hope.
And I hate him for it.