The night air was a relief, the wind was cool against my skin, almost sharp with how clean it felt after hours under bright chandelier lights.
I stood just beyond the back terrace of the hotel, near a planter filled with manicured lavender. The faintest breeze tugged at the strands of my hair, lifting them free from the tightness of my bun.
With a quiet sigh, I ran my fingers through the knot, pulling it loose. My hair tumbled freely around my shoulders, and the pressure on my scalp finally eased.
A glass of sparkling water dangled from my fingers—my fifth of the night, I think. I wanted a drink, a real one. Something that would burn on the way down and maybe take the edge off.
But I'd driven here. And I knew better.
Behind me, the faint sound of laughter floated from the ballroom, followed by the muffled hum of some overly enthusiastic toast.
They never ran out of things to applaud, did they?
I stayed where I was. Let them clink glasses and chase headlines. Let them admire Nathan Reed's poise and polish.
Out here, I could admit it—I was exhausted. Not just from the summit.
From carrying a company that would have capsized the minute Mario hopped on a plane if I hadn't been there to steer it.
I took another sip and leaned against the cold iron railing. Just a few more minutes, then I'd leave. I'd had my moment. I'd made my point.
Then I felt a presence behind me.
I didn't turn around.
"Ms. Galveston," he called.
I didn't flinch. Just took another sip of my water and kept my eyes on the skyline. Let him come to me.
"Quite an entrance you made there," he added, voice smooth as ever. "The subtle jabs were quiet bold. You nearly gave me a heart attack."
I finally turned, slowly. He was closer than I expected, hands tucked casually into his pockets, the kind of man who didn't just step into a room—he made it feel like his name was stitched into the drapes.
"But you survived, didn't you?" I said evenly.
His mouth quirked, a glint of teeth and charm that had probably disarmed half the women in the room tonight.
"Barely," he replied. "Though I have to say, I admire the precision. You aim to wound."
"I aim to expose."
"Same thing, isn't it? Depending on who's bleeding."
I held his gaze. "And you're bleeding?"
He stepped closer, not quite invading, but enough to test boundaries. "Not yet. But you do make it fun."
He was flirting. Of course he was. It was practically his brand.
It was no secret that he changed women like most people changed socks. Smiled, seduced, moved on. He probably didn't even remember their names.
My face stayed exactly the same.
I took another sip. "You're used to being fawned over, aren't you?"
He laughed softly, genuine and a little intrigued. "You're not impressed."
"No," I said. "But I do respect your... commitment to the performance."
Nathan tilted his head, studying me like I was an article he didn't quite know how to dissect yet. "Tell me something," he said, voice lower now. "Do you always come out swinging, or did I just get lucky?"
I smiled, dry and sharp. "You got noticed. Don't push it."
He glanced down, the corner of his mouth twitching. Not quite defeat. But something close to... amusement. Maybe even interest.
Nathan let the silence stretch a second too long, as if trying to recalibrate.
Then, "You're not like the others."
"I get that a lot," I replied.
He smiled again, slower this time. "I bet you do."
Just then, the click of heels broke the moment.
"Mr. Reed," a voice called behind him.
A woman in a tailored pink dress, tablet in hand, earpiece clipped just so. His assistant, obviously.
She didn't glance at me.
"They're waiting for you at the press table. Questions about the exposé."
Nathan sighed lightly, then looked at me one last time. "Duty calls."
"Don't keep the people waiting," I said, already turning back to the city lights.
He paused for half a second longer. Then he was gone, the sound of his footsteps fading into the hum of the night.
I let out a breath, grateful for the sudden emptiness beside me. The night air was cooler now, settling softly against my skin.
My phone buzzed.
I almost ignored it—probably a newsroom ping or some late night update or Clarissa's reminder to review some file.
But it was from Mario, now saved as 'Betrayer' on my phone.
'You free?'
I texted back.
'Yes, why?'
The message had barely sent when a call came in.
"I thought you couldn't make calls."
'Why, hello to you too,' he answered with usual sarcasm.
"Hey, I should be the one with the attitude."
'Yeah whatever.'
"You know, sometimes I struggle to accept the fact that you're not a teenager stuck in a 35-year-old man's body."
Silence. Then, 'Haha.'
I sighed in resignation. There was no helping this one.
'My trip might last a bit long-'
I cut him short, dreadful of the next words that might come out of his mouth. "No, no, no. No, Mario. I'm dying here. Please don't do this to me."
'One month off, excluding your vacation days.'
My eyes widened.
"Deal," I said immediately.
Mario never, and I mean, NEVER, gave us breaks, except during the holidays. Even then, it was one week off at most.
This was a dream come true for me.
'Tsk, who's the child now? Hold down the fort till I get back.'
I made a salute stance even though he couldn't see me.
"You got it, boss. But how much longer are-"
The line went dead.
I sucked in air through my teeth. That damn man.
Oh well, it's nothing compared to the joy that was to come.
And for the first the first time in what felt like a decade, I had a genuine smile on my face.
It wouldn't be long now. What could possibly go wrong?
•••
BONUS:
A tall figure stood at the edge of the hotel balcony, his gaze fixed with interest on the smaller figure, bouncing with excitement.
Smoke curled from his lips as he watched, amusement slowly tugging at the corner of his mouth.
"Well," he murmured, "now you have my attention."