~[Chapter 15] Unravelling~
I woke up to the shrill sound of my alarm.
For a moment, I just lay there, disoriented, my head pounding.
The room was too bright. The sun was streaming through the windows at an angle that felt wrong.
I grabbed my phone to silence the alarm and froze when I saw the time.
2:45 PM.
Saturday afternoon.
"Shit."
I bolted upright, immediately regretting it as my head spun and my stomach lurched.
The meeting.
I had a meeting at 4 PM.
I stumbled out of bed, my body protesting every movement, and rushed to the bathroom.
Cold shower. Quick. Efficient.
The water helped clear some of the fog, but my head still felt like it was stuffed with cotton.
I brushed my teeth twice. Applied makeup to cover the evidence of last night's breakdown. Pulled my hair into a sleek ponytail.
By 3:15, I was dressed—black slacks, cream blouse, blazer. Professional. Put together.
The opposite of how I felt.
I grabbed my bag, checked my reflection one last time, and headed out.
____________
The café was in Sukhumvit, trendy and minimalist with exposed brick walls and industrial lighting.
I arrived ten minutes early and ordered a double espresso.
The investor—Krit Maneesakul—arrived exactly on time.
He was young. Maybe twenty-eight, thirty at most. Designer sneakers, expensive watch, casual confidence that came from making money faster than most people could comprehend.
Crypto trading, my research had said. Started with nothing, turned it into millions by twenty-five.
"Ms. Chantasiri." He extended his hand.
"Krit. Thanks for meeting me."
"Thank you for taking the time,"
I replied, shaking his hand.
We sat down, and he ordered some complicated coffee drink I'd never heard of.
"So," he said, leaning back in his chair.
"I've heard interesting things about your project."
"Good things, I hope."
He smiled.
"Interesting things. Which can be better than good."
I liked him already.
We talked for a while. He asked about my background, my vision, why I thought this collection was worth the risk.
I answered honestly. Passionately. The words came easier than they had in previous meetings.
Maybe it was because he was young. Because he'd taken risks himself. Because he didn't look at me like I was crazy for wanting to push boundaries.
"I want to see the designs," he said finally. "The actual pieces. Or at least detailed sketches."
"Of course." I reached for my bag. "I have the portfolio right—"
I stopped.
My hand moved through the bag. Once. Twice. Folders. Notebook. Wallet. Phone charger. Pens.
No portfolio.
My heart dropped.
"Ms. Chantasiri?"
"I—"
I searched again, more frantically this time.
"I'm sorry, I thought I had—"
But I knew.
I knew the moment my hand came up empty, the portfolio wasn't there.
"Is everything okay?"
Krit asked, concern creeping into his voice.
"I..." I swallowed hard. "I apologize. I seem to have left the portfolio at my office."
"Do you have photos? Digital copies?"
"I—no. I don't."
My voice sounded distant.
"The physical portfolio was the only copy I brought. I hadn't photographed this version yet."
Stupid. So stupid.
He checked his watch.
"Look,"
he said, not unkindly.
"This sounds promising. Really. But I need to see the work before I commit to anything. Can we reschedule?"
"Of course. Yes. I'm so sorry."
"Don't be."
He stood.
"Things happen. Just reach out when you're ready, and we'll set something up."
He left.
_________
I sat there for another ten minutes, staring at my empty bag, feeling like an absolute idiot.
I went home first.
Tore through my apartment. Checked every surface, every drawer, under the couch cushions, in the laundry.
Nothing.
The portfolio wasn't there.
I sat on my floor, trying to remember.
Last night.
The bar.
Liya.
The cab.
Had I taken it to the bar? I must have. I'd been coming from investor meetings all day.
But then...
The cab.
I'd gotten sick. The driver had helped me. I'd paid him and left.
Had I left it in the cab?
I grabbed my phone and opened the ride-sharing app. Found last night's ride in my history.
There was a contact button.
I pressed it.
The phone rang three times before someone picked up.
"Hello?"
"Hi, yes, I—I took your cab last night. Around 10 PM? You dropped me off
at—"
"Oh! Yes, miss. Are you feeling better?"
Relief flooded through me.
"Yes, thank you. Listen, I think I might have left something in your car. A black portfolio? About this big, with design sketches inside?"
There was a pause.
"Portfolio... Let me check."
I heard rustling. Doors opening and closing.
"I'm sorry, miss. There's nothing here. I cleaned the car this morning. If something was there, I would have found it."
My stomach dropped.
"Are you sure?"
"Very sure. I always check carefully. Sometimes people leave phones,
wallets. But nothing today."
"Okay. Thank you."
I hung up.
If it wasn't in the cab, then where could it be....
The office.
Maybe I'd gone to the office and left it there before going to the bar. I'd probably been so exhausted I'd forgotten I did.
It didn't make sense, but maybe I did.
I grabbed my keys and headed out.
The drive to Sĩrĩ Navari headquarters took twenty minutes.
The building was quiet. Empty. The parking lot nearly deserted except for security vehicles.
I used my keycard to get past the front entrance and took the elevator to my floor.
The hallways were dark. Motion-sensor lights flickered on as I walked.
My office door was locked. I fumbled with my keys, finally got it open.
I flipped on the lights and immediately started searching.
Desk. Drawers. Filing cabinets. The couch. Under papers.
Nothing.
"Where the hell is it?"
I muttered, checking the same places again.
I went to the conference room. Checked there too.
Still nothing.
I stood in the middle of my office, trying to think.
If it wasn't at home. If it wasn't in the cab. If it wasn't here...
Where the hell was it?
I felt panic starting to rise in my chest.
Those designs represented six months of work. Six months of my life. The only chance I had at getting funding, at winning this competition, at proving I was capable of—
I stopped myself.
Panicking wouldn't help.
I took a deep breath, turned off the lights, locked my office, and headed back to the elevator.
The drive home felt longer than it should have.
My mind kept replaying last night.
The bar. Liya sitting next to me. Walking out. Getting in the cab. Getting sick. Coming home.
Had I been carrying the portfolio then?
I couldn't remember.
Everything after seeing Liya was a blur.
When I finally pulled into my building's parking garage, I practically ran to the elevator.
Please be there. Please be there.
The elevator doors opened on my floor, and I rushed down the hallway to my condo.
I fumbled with my keys, finally got the door open, and stepped inside.
"Okay,"
I said to myself.
"Think. Where would drunk Maya have put it?"
I started with the obvious places.
Entryway—checked the table by the door, the floor, the coat closet.
Nothing.
Then the kitchen—every counter, opened drawers, checked the trash even though that would be insane.
Nothing.
Living room—couch cushions, under the coffee table, behind the TV.
Still nothing.
I was starting to panic again when the doorbell rang.
I froze.
It was Saturday afternoon. I wasn't expecting anyone.
The doorbell rang again.
I walked to the door and checked the peephole.
And my heart stopped.
Liya.
She stood in the hallway, wearing jeans and a simple white shirt, her hair down, looking nervous.
And in her hands was a manila envelope.
An envelope I recognized immediately.
My portfolio.
For a moment, I just stood there, frozen, staring through the peephole.
How did she get past building security?
How did she know where I lived?
She shifted her weight, glanced down at the envelope, then looked back at my door.
Waiting.
I took a breath and opened the door.
We stared at each other.
Neither of us spoke.
The silence stretched, heavy with everything we hadn't said.
Finally, Liya held out the envelope.
"You left this," she said quietly. "At the bar. Last night."
I looked at the envelope. At her hands holding it. At her face.
"How did you..." I gestured vaguely. "how did you get up here?"
"I told them I was your friend,"
she said. "That you were expecting me. They... they recognized my name. Let me through."
Of course they did. The Wongchais were almost as well-known as my family.
"And you know where I live because...?"
She looked down.
"I asked Santa. A while ago. After I came back. I didn't... I didn't use it. I
just wanted to know."
I didn't know what to say to that.
I reached out slowly and took the envelope from her.
Our fingers brushed for just a second and I felt goosebumps spread across my body. Crazy how she still has that same effect over me. That same electricity. That same pull.
I pulled my hand back quickly.
"Thank you,"
I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
"You're welcome."
Silence.
We stood there, in my doorway,
Frozen. Speechless.
I watched emotions flicker across her face like a storm passing through.
Guilt, longing, fear, hope, pain.
Each one surfaced for a heartbeat before being replaced by the next.
Her eyes were glassy, like she was fighting back tears.
I tried to remind myself to hate her.
Tried to remember the four years of silence. Pains. Loneliness. The way she'd looked at me in that hallway with complete neutrality. The nights I'd cried myself to sleep.
I tried.
But standing there, looking at her, all I could feel was the ache.
The wanting.
The missing.
Liya took a small breath, then bowed her head slightly—a gesture of finality.
"I should go,"
she whispered.
She turned away.
And something in me snapped.
Before I could think, before I could stop myself, my hand shot out and grabbed her arm.
She turned back, eyes wide with surprise.
I pulled her toward me.
Cupped her face in both hands.
And kissed her.
For a moment, she froze—completely still, like she couldn't believe what was happening.
Then—slowly—she melted into me.