Brian tried to focus on work. He really did.
The conference room was filled with executives arguing over market expansion, numbers flashing across the screen, strategies being dissected with surgical precision. Brian sat at the head of the table, composed, attentive, responding when needed. To everyone else, he was the same decisive CEO he had always been.
Inside, his thoughts were somewhere else entirely.
Come back when you're ready to order something other than attention.
The words replayed in his mind like a challenge he hadn't agreed to—but couldn't ignore.
"Brian?"
He blinked. "Yes."
"Are we moving forward with the acquisition or not?" his CFO asked.
Brian glanced at the figures, then nodded. "Yes. Tighten the conditions and proceed."
The meeting ended shortly after, but the restlessness didn't. By late afternoon, he was standing by his office window, city stretched out beneath him, feeling oddly disconnected from everything he'd built. Success had always been loud—applause, headlines, admiration. Amara had been quiet. And somehow, that silence was louder than anything else.
He didn't go back to the café that day.
Or the next.
He told himself that was proof of self-control. That whatever curiosity she sparked would fade like everything else. But on the third morning, he found himself there again, standing outside, hesitating before pushing the door open.
The bell chimed.
Amara looked up—and this time, she didn't pretend not to see him.
"You again," she said.
"Good morning," he replied. "I'm ordering coffee."
She waited.
"And," he added after a beat, "I'm not staying to hover."
That earned him a nod.
She handed him his cup without comment, and he moved to a small table by the window. He drank slowly, letting the warmth ground him. When he stood to leave, he stopped at the counter.
"You were right," he said.
She glanced up. "About?"
"I do like attention," he admitted. "But I don't need yours. I just… respect it."
Her expression softened—not much, but enough to notice.
"Most people don't say that," she replied.
"I'm not most people," he said, then paused. "Not in the way you think."
She studied him, eyes searching, as if trying to decide whether he was worth the effort of belief. Finally, she sighed.
"I get off in ten minutes," she said. "If you're still around, we can talk. No performances."
Brian nodded. "No performances."
They sat outside with paper cups, the city rushing around them. He told her about the pressure of expectations, about being molded into a role before he understood what he wanted. He didn't mention money. He didn't mention power.
Amara listened.
"You hide behind confidence," she said eventually. "It's effective. But it's lonely."
He swallowed. "Yeah."
"You don't need to fix yourself overnight," she continued. "Just don't lie—to me or to yourself."
The honesty hit harder than judgment ever could.
As they stood to leave, Brian realized something dangerous: this wasn't a game, and it wasn't flirtation. This was the beginning of something that could change him.
And for the first time in his life, he wasn't sure if he was ready—or brave enough—to let it.