Ray's POV — Present Day
The office was quiet, the kind of quiet I liked—just the hum of the AC and the distant clicking of keyboards.
Until the door swung open without a knock.
Of course.
"Hey, handsome cold boy," Ava's voice floated in, sing-song and unapologetic.
She didn't walk in—she swanned, twirling halfway through the doorway like this was a fashion runway instead of a glass-walled boardroom in downtown L.A.
Black knee-length coat, sky-high heels, and her hair down in heavy waves, glossy and wild.
Like a goddamn storm in human form.
She dropped her bag on the nearest chair, not even pretending like I might be in the middle of work. "Okay, so you won't believe what Sebby said this morning."
I leaned back in my chair, watching her. "Did he finally confess he's secretly in a band and planning to drop out of school?"
"Worse!" She plopped into the chair across from me, already unzipping her coat. "He said I embarrassed him. Me. For hugging him at school. Can you believe that? My own son. After I carried him—literally—on my hip until he was six."
"You carried him like a football until he was eight," I corrected. "And I think he still has trauma from that time you used your designer heels to storm into soccer practice."
"Oh please," she waved a hand dramatically, "he loved that. Deep down he was proud. And he looked adorable in that tiny jersey."
I didn't say anything.
Just looked at her.
The way she lounged in my office like she owned it. Like she belonged here more than I did.
Which… she kind of did.
We co-owned the brand. But she carried its soul in her smile and runway strut. I just made sure it didn't burn to the ground.
"Anyway," she went on, checking her phone, "I bought him this limited edition sneaker drop from France and I know it'll make him forget all about the so-called public affection trauma. Oh! And I got you something too."
I raised an eyebrow.
She pulled out a tiny, immaculately wrapped package from her purse and slid it across my desk like we were trading secrets. "Don't open it now. You'll get shy."
I didn't touch it.
"Why do you always come in here like this?" I asked, quietly.
She blinked. "Like what?"
"Like you own the place. Like you know I won't stop you."
She grinned, slow and smug, eyes sparkling. "Because you won't."
She wasn't wrong.
I never did.
She could talk about Sebastian for hours, raid my espresso machine, steal my hoodies, buy me ridiculously expensive cologne I never asked for—and I'd still let her.
Every time.
Because she was Ava.
And I'd been in love with her since we were twelve.
But I just nodded. "Fine. Just don't let anyone else hear you call me handsome cold boy. I have a reputation."
She laughed, throwing her head back. "Ray Chen, emotionally unavailable heartthrob of the L.A. fashion scene, ruined by a clingy single mom in Dior heels."
She said it like a joke.
But part of me wished she knew how real it was.
How every time she walked into a room, it stopped being mine.