Aliana fixed a loose strand of hair behind her ear, her hands trembling as she stood in front of the team. It was her first official presentation—and the first time she had ever stood before Arman in a professional setting. Of course, she was nervous. She had spent the entire morning rehearsing, making sure her tone, outfit, and slides all matched what he once described as "a career-oriented woman."
She wanted him to see her that way—smart, composed, someone worthy of standing beside him.
From the corner of her eye, she tried to catch his reaction. She had spent the entire week perfecting this project, but when her gaze finally flicked toward him, her heart sank.
He wasn't even looking at her.
Arman sat at the head of the table, tall and perfectly still, his expression unreadable as he tapped away on his phone. Not a hint of interest crossed his face.
Was he seriously not paying attention?
Aliana's chest tightened. She fought to keep her expression neutral, but a faint frown tugged at her lips. The team leader, Jane, cleared her throat sharply—a silent reminder that Aliana was still in front of a full room.
"Oh! Yes, um…" she straightened her back quickly, forcing a bright smile. "So, like we've already observed, the younger generation has started living away from their families, right? They need something quick, something easy. This project focuses on ready-made meal kits that just need a little toss in the pan and voilà—five-star quality meals in minutes."
Her smile widened. It was a brilliant idea, or so she believed. Arman had told her to focus on college students, and she had. They wanted convenience, not complications.
But just as she finished, Arman finally looked up.
Her breath hitched. His expression didn't change. It never did. Sometimes she wondered if his face even knew how to move. Without saying a word, he rose from his chair, buttoning his jacket with deliberate calm. The room immediately fell silent.
"Miss Aliana," he said flatly, his voice low and even. "Do you know how much a college student earns in a day?"
Her eyes widened. "Huh? I—I don't understand what you mean."
He began walking toward her, unhurried and calm, his steps echoing across the floor. "Your proposal," he said, his tone clipped, "is supposed to target minimum-wage students, correct?"
Aliana nodded weakly. "Yes."
"Then tell me," he stopped right in front of her, his eyes sharp and calculating, "how much does a minimum-wage person make in a day?"
Her fingers twisted together, her throat tightening.
He didn't wait for her to answer. "Less than eight dollars," he said. "And your meal kit costs?"
She opened her mouth, but the words stumbled on her tongue.
"Twenty-five dollars worth of five star meal," he supplied, his tone like ice. "Do you think people living paycheck to paycheck care about a five star meal?."
The room went still. The weight of his words pressed down on her like stone. Her cheeks burned, humiliation crawling up her neck as every pair of eyes fixed on her.
"I—" she began, desperate to explain, but he cut her off before she could breathe.
"Just because you got the opportunity to work here doesn't mean you deserve it." His words were sharp, final. "Stop treating this company like a playground. Get your head straight. "
A hush fell over the room, followed by a few quiet gasps. Aliana stood frozen, her hands trembling at her sides, her heart thudding painfully in her chest.
For a moment, it felt like he wasn't her fiancé at all, but a stranger—one who looked at her as if she were nothing more than a mistake he had to tolerate.
Arman Levine.The man she was supposed to marry.The man who, right now, looked at her like she was nothing but a disappointment.
-
Aliana's voice trembled as she paced along the terrace, the wind tugging at her hair. "Mom, why is he like that? I tried so hard and he still hates it. No matter what I do, he hates me."
The words broke out before she could stop them. Her chest ached, her fingers gripping the edge of her phone as she tried to keep her voice steady. The memory of the meeting still stung—the quiet gasps, the awkward silence, the pitying glances from her colleagues. They all looked at her like she was some clueless, spoiled girl who didn't belong there.
"My darling," her mother's voice came through the line, gentle as always, "how can anyone hate you? Don't think like that, okay? I'll talk to your father and ask him to tell Arman to be nicer to you. You're getting married next year anyway."
The word married made her stomach twist. It didn't sound like a dream anymore. It sounded like a deadline she wasn't sure she'd survive.
She turned and began pacing again, her heels clicking sharply against the marble floor. Through the glass doors, she caught sight of him.
Arman.
He was standing in the hallway, speaking to his secretary. Calm. Tall. Perfectly composed. His sleeves were rolled up, his tie slightly loosened, that same unreadable expression fixed on his face. He looked like a man too busy for trivial things like affection—or her.
For a moment, his eyes flicked toward her. Flat. Uninterested. Then back to his phone.
He had seen her. And he didn't care.
Aliana's breath hitched. "Mom, I'll call you later," she said quickly, hanging up before her mother could say another word. She slipped her phone into her pocket and straightened her blouse, brushing invisible dust off her skirt. She didn't even know why she did this—chasing after him, trying to explain herself every time he misunderstood her, hoping he'd stop looking at her like she was a burden.
He was already walking away when she called, "Arman!"
His secretary froze mid-step, startled by the use of his name. Aliana's stomach dropped.
"Boss," she corrected quickly, forcing a nervous smile. "I meant—Boss. Could I have a moment?"
Arman stopped. There was the faintest flicker in his eyes, like he wanted to sigh but didn't allow himself to. He gave a short nod to his secretary, silently dismissing her. Once they were alone, he turned toward Aliana.
"You can't wait to reveal your identity, can you?" His tone was calm, but every word felt deliberate, cutting through the air like a blade.
Her chest tightened. "No, that's not what I meant. I just—"
"Cut to the point, Aliana," he said evenly, his eyes barely meeting hers. "What do you want?"
The way he said her name made her flinch. There was no warmth, no affection—just the weariness of a man who had already lost his patience.
And yet, she couldn't help herself. Even when he was like this, she still wanted him to look at her. To just see her.
"I was thinking… maybe dinner tonight?" she asked carefully, trying to sound casual, though her voice wavered.
Arman didn't look up from his phone. "I'm busy."
Her lips parted, the faint smile fading instantly. "But it's my birthday," she said softly, almost whispering, hoping he would at least pause—acknowledge her in some way.
He didn't.
"I'll send you flowers," he replied flatly, his attention still fixed on the screen.
"I don't want flowers," she said quickly. "I just want dinner with you. That's all I'm asking for. One evening."
Her throat burned as she spoke. She wasn't asking for gifts, not even attention. Just time. Just a little proof that she still meant something to him.
For the first time in the conversation, Arman finally looked up. His eyes met hers briefly—cold, steady, impossible to read. "I'll see," he said simply.
Her heart leapt foolishly at those two words. "Really? Thank you, Arman. I'll cook your favorite food myself."
But before she could even finish smiling, his next words came—sharp, precise, and heavy.
"Don't make it an excuse for your half-hearted effort at work. I'm not keeping anyone here who can't perform properly."
The smile froze on her face. His tone hadn't changed, but the sting of it sank deep.
Aliana swallowed hard and nodded, her voice barely above a whisper. "Okay. I understand."
She stood there for a moment, trying to steady her breath, when a voice called from behind her.
"Aliana, is this yours? I found it in the meeting room."
She turned and saw one of her colleagues walking toward her, holding a pink leather diary tied with a neat silk ribbon.
"Oh! Yeah, it is—thank you," Aliana said quickly, taking it with a small, distracted smile.
The girl hesitated, her polite smile a little strained. "It's Alice," she said, reminding her name with a forced lightness.
"Oh. Right. Thanks, Alice."
Alice gave a tight nod and walked off, heels clicking sharply against the tiles, clearly not thrilled that Aliana had forgotten her name.
Aliana sighed and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. "I don't even remember taking this to the meeting," she muttered, turning the diary over in her hands. The cover was soft, the edges slightly worn from use. She opened it.
Inside were her entries—her handwriting, her words—each page neatly dated and signed off with her usual heading, Dear Diary.
Every evening, she wrote something before bed. Just a small habit to hold on to her memories, especially the good ones that were getting rarer these days.
She flipped to the last page.
It was already titled and dated for today but she hadn't written anything yet. The ink, though, was fresh. As if someone else had written in her place.
"Dear diary it is my birthday Today..." Aliana's gaze narrowed.
"When did I write this?"