"Never be quick to judge someone based on their size or appearance without knowing who they truly are."
— Bella Angel Douglas
Antonio's POV
May 16.
For most people, it's just another beautiful day.
For me, it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth.
I stare at the date on my phone longer than necessary before placing it face down on my desk. My jaw tightens.
May 16 reminds me what happens when control slips.
And I do not lose control.
Control built my empire.
Control kept me alive in rooms where weakness was devoured.
Control turned a Liberian boy into a billionaire in the United States.
Which is why I test people.
Pressure exposes cracks. Delay reveals desperation. Silence forces truth to surface.
Six months.
I made Sofi Architect wait six months.
Not because I doubted their competence.
Because I wanted to see if they would bend.
They didn't.
That impressed me.
I just didn't expect their CEO to look like her.
...
We've been seated at Crystal Restaurant for ten minutes.
Late.
My fingers tap once against the polished table. Slow. Measured.
Discipline matters.
The door opens.
Two women walk in.
The taller one steps forward. Professional.
"You are late, Ms. Parker," I say evenly.
No raised voice.
Power doesn't need volume.
Then I see her.
Small frame. Ocean-blue dress. Dark hair cascading down her back.
And those eyes.
Blue — but not entirely. There's something darker woven into them.
Unusual.
Distracting.
My gaze lingers a second too long.
Who brings a child to a negotiation dinner?
My brows narrow slightly.
But something about her posture makes me pause.
She stands straight.
Still.
Watching.
Children fidget.
She doesn't.
Still, I assume.
I shouldn't have.
"We are discussing a multi-billion-dollar development," I say calmly. "This isn't a place for distractions."
I watch her face as I say it.
Nothing.
Just controlled stillness.
"If she's your assistant, she can wait outside."
The taller woman stammers.
"She is Miss Parker. She's the owner."
Silence.
I look at her again.
Properly this time.
She doesn't lower her gaze.
Most people do.
That irritates me.
And intrigues me.
"This is the CEO?" I ask quietly.
I stand.
Walk closer.
"You're younger than I expected."
My eyes drop briefly.
"And smaller."
The word leaves my mouth deliberately.
Controlled.
I don't shout.
I don't sneer.
But I see the impact.
Her fingers curl inward.
Her nails press into her palm.
A flicker of heat rises along her neck.
Yet she lifts her chin.
"Who exactly are you calling small, Mr. Haywood?"
Her voice trembles.
But it does not break.
And that… unsettles me.
She introduces herself. Reminds me I reviewed her company for six months.
"And yet you reduce me to a physical measurement."
Physical measurement.
The phrase echoes longer than it should.
I feel something tighten in my chest.
But instead of acknowledging it, I harden internally.
I didn't reduce her.
I made an observation.
Facts are not insults.
That's what I tell myself.
"You of all people should know that presence is not defined by height."
Her eyes shine.
Not weak.
Wounded.
And I dislike that reaction in myself — the flicker of recognition.
"I was insulted this morning," she says. "I will not stand here and be insulted again."
Then she walks out.
No hesitation.
No begging.
No attempt to salvage the deal.
She leaves.
And she never once looked away.
The door closes.
The room feels… off balance.
My assistant clears his throat. "Sir, should I contact their office tomorrow?"
I remain standing.
Jaw clenched.
I replay her words.
Physical measurement.
Presence is not defined by height.
I tell myself she overreacted.
I tell myself leaders must be thick-skinned.
I tell myself punctuality matters more than pride.
But beneath all of that justification—
There it is.
A quiet twist in my chest.
She didn't shrink.
She didn't plead.
She challenged me.
And I hate that I respected it.
May 16.
The last time I underestimated someone, it cost me more than money.
It cost me control.
That is why I test people.
That is why I never assume weakness equals incompetence.
Yet tonight, I did exactly that.
I exhale slowly.
"Call her office," I say finally.
My assistant straightens. "To cancel, sir?"
"No."
My voice is firm again.
"Reschedule. Tomorrow morning. First thing."
He nods quickly.
When he leaves, I remain by the window.
The city lights reflect faintly against the glass.
I rarely miscalculate.
And I never misread people.
But tonight—
I did.
I don't like that feeling.
It sits heavy.
Uncomfortable.
Unfamiliar.
I clench my jaw once more.
This isn't regret.
It's correction.
But deep down…
I know better.
Author's Note
May 16 it's my birthday.
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