I ensured my office was built for silence.
I don't mean the kind that longs to be broken, but the intentional calmness of a room where choices are weighed and conclusions drawn without question. From a young age I've been reserved. Been more of that of recent, signs I'm becoming older, maybe. Emotionless. The floor to ceiling windows spanned across the eastern wall, giving a panoramic view of the city below, Mexico City unfolding in disciplined lines of glass, asphalt, and ambition.
I sat behind my desk, hair in place, jacket spread neatly over the back of my chair, sleeves rolled, just the way I like it. A leather bound proposal I'd received from my assistant some days ago. And of course, a cup of coffee. The proposal lay open before me, its pages filled with figures, projections, and promises written in the careful language of people who wanted my approval. My approval, I smirk to myself.
I read without hurry, skimming through it's page, taking notes.
The proposal was solid. Conservative, even. Profitable in the way small minds found comforting. A mid rise commercial development pitched as "innovative,". Though I could already see where corners had been cut and risks disguised as prudence. There it is. I tapped my pen once against the margin, narrowing my eyes slightly as I recalculated numbers that didn't quite sit right.
People mistook restraint for complacency. They mistook silence for ignorance. And that's where the mistake lie.
I made a note in the margin, precise and minimal. The project wasn't dead. It would need teeth, not like I'll tell them how to go about proposal presentation and how to express the usefulness of their project.
Someone knocked the door, disrupting the stillness of the room.
I didn't bother looking up. "Yes."
The door opened softly. Footsteps crossed the carpet with measured care.
"Excuse me sir," my assistant said. "You have a visitor."
My eyes remained on the page. "Okay? Does she or he have an appointment?"
There was a pause, so brief, but noticeable.
"No, sir."
I exhaled through my nose, visibly and undeniably annoyed, . "Then…?"
"She insisted."
I stilled my pen. .
I lifted his gaze slowly. "She?"
"Yes." His assistant hesitated. "It's… your ex."
For a fraction of a second, the world tilted, not visibly, not dramatically, but enough that I felt it settled somewhere behind my ribs. I closed the file with deliberate care and aligned it perfectly with the edge of the desk.
"What's her name?," I said calmly.
"Brenda," the assistant replied. "Brenda Cruz."
I leaned back in my chair, careful not to show any emotions.
Brenda. She has eventually changed her surname. Without a proper divorce? Now that's a surprise. What could be her end game?
The name hadn't crossed my lips or my mind in months, yet it arrived with the familiarity of an old scar, one I wished I never got, no longer bleeding, but sensitive if pressed too hard. I rose to my feet, adjusting my cufflinks as if the interruption were nothing more than another agenda to get done and over with.
"How long has she been here?" I asked.
"Ten minutes."
I nodded once. "Hmm. Send her in."
The assistant left quickly and I stood and walked to the window. Turning toward the window, I clasped my hands loosely behind my back. Below me, traffic crawled through the avenues, horns blaring faintly even at this height. I watched the city move while my mind drifted, not far, just enough to touch the past without lingering.
There had been a time when Brenda's presence had filled rooms, when I would always search her out in a room full of people. When she had also looked at me like I was her while world. When her laugh had softened edges I hadn't yet learned to sharpen. We had met in college. Young, hungry, aligned by ambition if not always by direction. She had believed in me once, or at least in what she thought we would become.
Then she'd decided someone else could get her there faster.
She hadn't just left me, no, that would have been a lot easier to bear, she'd left me for a rival.
The memory no longer burned. It sat quietly now, contained and distant. Hurt, yes, but long settled. I had made my peace with it the day I realized loss could be survived without bitterness.
What puzzled me now was, why now?
Why my office? Why today?
The door opened again. I turned to face her and carefully took in her detail.
Brenda entered as if she still belonged here, I smile inwardly. She wore confidence the way she always had, tailored, deliberate, impossible to ignore. Still quite impressive if I must say. Her heels clicked softly against the floor as she crossed the room, her posture impeccable, her expression carefully composed. An applause for her. She took in the space with a glance that lingered just long enough to judge it. She hasn't changed. Still a judgemental bitch.
"Alex," she said, smiling faintly. "It's been a while, hasn't it?"
"Brenda," I replied, my tone neutral. "You're early."
She arched her brow. "For what?"
"For whatever this is," I said evenly.
She smiled again, thinner this time, and took the seat opposite my desk without being invited. Crossing her legs, she rested her hands in her lap like someone accustomed to being accommodated.
"I see you're still here," she said, glancing around, like I should be anywhere else. "Same city. Same building, more or less. Same grim color, I see." Her eyes taking in my whole form.
I returned to my chair slowly. "And you're still very hyper vigilant." She blushed at the compliment.
Then her gaze sharpened. "I expected something….. more." She said.
"Did you?" I asked.
"Yes." She shrugged lightly. "I thought you'd… expand, you know, move on to bigger markets."
I folded my hands atop the desk. "I did."
I see her lips pressed together. She hadn't expected that. But the shock registered, and I smiled at it.
We regarded each other across the polished surface, the air between us calm but charged, like a hunting game. Seeing that I'd cut her snide remarks twice, she looks like she is formulating a third. Two people once fluent in each other's languages, now speaking completely different dialects.
"So," I said at last, "what brings you here?"
She waved a hand dismissively. "Relax. I'm not here to cause trouble."
"Of course not. You never were," I replied. "You preferred efficiency."
Her smile faltered for a moment, receiving the compliment with yet another blush, then recovered. Seems like she hasn't fully gotten over me. Then why'd she end what was between us? I never understood women.
"I'm in town." She announced
"I gathered."
"I came to see the kids."
There it was. I've had this coming for a while now. The familiar ache, dull but present. I nodded once, acknowledging the statement without comment.
"And," she added casually, "I thought I'd stop by to say hi."
I studied her face, searching for something, sarcasm, regret, curiosity, calculation. Maybe longing. What I found instead was entitlement, polished and unashamed.
"Hi," I said simply.
She laughed softly. "You've changed."
"Have I?"
"Yes. You're quieter."
"I learned when to listen."
She leaned back, assessing me openly now. "You always did hide behind control."
I smirk. "And you always mistook it for stagnation." It sounds like I'm challenging her, and I am.
Her eyes flickered. The exchange had turned, subtly but decisively.
We spoke for a few more minutes. Safe topics, neutral ground. Work. Travel. Mutual acquaintances we no longer cared about. It was easy, almost comfortable, like slipping into a well-worn coat that no longer fit quite right.
Eventually, I felt my patience thin. I had work to do, don't fancy a cozy chat with my ex.
"Brenda," I said, my voice sounding calm but firm. "Why're you really here?"
She paused, clearly weighing how much to reveal. Calculating her response. Then she stood, smoothing her dress.
"I told you," she said lightly. "I came to see the kids." 'The kids' not 'my kids'. Noted.
"And the office?"
She smiled, sharp and unapologetic. "Curiosity."
I rose as well, stepping around the desk. I stopped a few feet away, close enough to see the fine lines near her eyes, the effort behind the confidence.
"Are you satisfied?" I asked.
"For now," she said. "It's good to know some things don't change."
I smiled then, not warmly, not unkindly. Just amused.
She hesitated, perhaps expecting more. When it didn't come, she stood and walked toward the door, every step as composed as her entrance.
"And we should get a proper divorce. You didn't bring that up", I said, my voice stopping her in her tracks. She turned her head. Smiled, and walked out.
The door closed behind her.
I remained standing for a moment, staring at the space she'd occupied. Then I shook my head once, a
quiet dismissal, and returned to my desk. She sure was playing games again.
I reopened the proposal, pen poised, focus restored, Brenda forgotten.