Rege stepped into his penthouse without turning on the lights immediately.
The door closed behind him with a soft click, sealing him into a silence that felt different from the usual—less empty, less distant. For a moment, he simply stood there, his hand still resting on the handle, his mind not where he was but somewhere else entirely.
With her.
The memory returned without effort.
Not fragmented. Not unclear.
Precise.
The way she had looked at him.
The way her laughter had lingered.
The way she had gone completely still when he kissed her.
His jaw tightened slightly.
He hadn't planned that.
Rege exhaled slowly, loosening his buttons as he stepped further into the dimly lit space. The city beyond the glass walls stretched endlessly—skyscrapers glowing faintly against the deepening night, distant traffic moving like quiet streams of light. It was the same view he saw every day.
But tonight, it felt… distant.
Because his thoughts were not here.
They were still in that room.
On her.
He ran a hand through his hair, the movement slow, controlled.
He hadn't intended to kiss her.
There had been no calculated decision, no deliberate step leading up to it. It had simply… happened.
A quiet impulse he hadn't stopped.
And that, more than anything, unsettled him.
Rege was not a man ruled by impulse.
But with Maya—
His control had not broken.
It had… shifted.
Subtly. Quietly.
Dangerously.
He walked toward the kitchen, rolling up his sleeves as he moved with familiar precision. The soft hum of the refrigerator, the faint clink of utensils, the steady rhythm of routine—it grounded him, brought him back into himself.
But not completely.
Because even as he prepared dinner—simple, efficient, something he had done countless times before—his mind kept drifting.
Back to her.
To the way she had looked at him with something close to wonder when he smiled.
To the way she had said it so easily—
You have a beautiful smile.
His lips curved faintly at the memory.
Not a smirk.
Something quieter.
He placed the pot on the stove, his movements steady, but his thoughts far from it.
This was new.
Not the presence of a woman.
Not attention.
Not even attraction.
Those things had existed before, easily dismissed, easily controlled.
But this—
This was something else entirely.
For the first time in a long time, conversation had not felt like a transaction.
There had been no calculation.
No expectation.
No need to maintain a particular version of himself.
He had simply… been.
And it had felt—
Easy.
The realization settled in his chest, heavier than it should have been.
He wanted that again.
Not briefly.
Not occasionally.
He wanted it to continue.
Without interruption.
Without end.
Rege turned off the stove, serving his meal with quiet efficiency. He ate at the counter, the city lights stretching before him, but he barely registered the taste.
His thoughts were already moving ahead.
Work.
He had delayed it long enough.
And yet—
For the first time, returning to it did not feel like a necessity.
It felt like something pulling him away from something else.
He set the utensils down, rinsed them without delay, and moved toward his study.
The room was precise. Orderly. Every file aligned, every surface clean, every object in its place.
It had always been a space of control.
Tonight, he stepped into it carrying something unfamiliar.
Something that did not belong to structure.
He sat down, opened his laptop, and began.
Emails. Reports. Schedules.
His focus returned.
Sharp. Efficient. Unwavering.
But beneath it—
Something lingered.
And it did not fade.
—
Morning came early.
The sunlight filtered through the glass walls, casting a pale gold across the polished floors. The city below was already alive—cars moving, people rushing, the quiet hum of routine filling the air.
Rege woke without hesitation.
No resistance.
No delay.
But before anything else—
Before standing, before thinking—
He reached for his phone.
"Good morning, Krasota."
The message was sent within seconds.
No overthinking.
No second-guessing.
He placed the phone down and rose from the bed, moving through his routine with the same precision as always.
Except—
His mind was not entirely on it.
—
James arrived early, as expected.
Breakfast was already arranged by the time Rege stepped into the dining area—clean, minimal, efficient.
"Good morning, sir," James greeted.
Rege gave a slight nod, taking his seat.
"Your schedule for today," James continued, placing the tablet beside him. "The board meeting has been moved forward. The investors are expecting—"
"I know," Rege cut in calmly.
James fell silent.
Not offended.
Used to it.
Rege ate without distraction this time, his focus returning fully to the present. By the time he finished, his expression had settled into something colder.
Controlled.
Untouchable.
He dressed in silence—sharp suit, precise lines, every detail intentional.
And then—
He picked up his phone.
No new message yet.
A brief pause.
Then he set it down.
He did not wait.
He left.
Maya woke up later than usual.
Sunlight had already taken over the room, slipping through the curtains in soft, golden streaks that stretched across the walls and settled gently on her bed. The air felt warm, still—like the world had already moved on without her.
She lay there for a moment, unmoving.
Her body felt rested.
But her mind… wasn't.
Sleep had come eventually, but not easily. Her thoughts had refused to settle the night before, circling the same moments over and over again—the way he looked at her, the way he spoke, the quiet weight of everything he said without saying too much.
And that kiss—
Maya exhaled softly, turning her head slightly before reaching toward the bedside drawer. Her fingers found her phone almost instinctively.
She unlocked it.
And there it was.
"Good morning, Krasota."
Her lips curved immediately.
Not deliberately. Not cautiously.
Just… naturally.
She pushed herself up slowly, her back resting against the headboard as her fingers moved across the screen.
"Good morning, how are you doing?"
She sent it without hesitation.
Then paused.
Her eyes lingered on the screen, her thumb hovering just slightly as if she expected another message to appear instantly.
Waiting.
—
Miles away, in a room built on precision and control, Rege sat at the head of a long glass table.
The boardroom was quiet in the way important spaces often were—not silent, but measured. Voices moved in turns. Data was presented. Numbers filled the screens lining the walls.
Everything was in order.
Until his phone lit up.
The vibration was subtle against the table.
But he saw it.
Her name.
And just like that—his attention shifted.
He reached for the phone without a second thought.
"I am well. How are you feeling today?"
He typed it quickly, his expression unchanged, as though he were still listening.
But he wasn't.
Not entirely.
He leaned back slightly in his chair, one hand resting loosely against the armrest as his gaze flickered briefly to the screen.
Waiting.
Across the table, a few of the directors exchanged quiet glances.
James noticed.
Of course he did.
But he said nothing.
—
Maya was halfway through brunch when her phone buzzed.
She had told herself she wasn't waiting.
But her phone had remained within reach the entire time.
So when it lit up—
She didn't hesitate.
A small smile touched her lips as she picked it up.
"I feel better."
She typed it easily, her shoulders relaxing just slightly as she hit send.
—
Rege read the message almost immediately.
Something in his chest eased.
Not dramatically.
Just enough.
He turned his chair slightly, the city stretching endlessly behind him—glass towers catching the light, streets threading between them like veins.
"Did you sleep well?"
—
"Quite well."
Maya replied, her expression softening as she stared at the screen for a moment longer.
Then, almost without thinking—
"I still think Bran shouldn't have been king."
She sent it.
And then smiled faintly to herself.
—
A quiet chuckle slipped from Rege before he could stop it.
Low. Controlled.
But real.
The sound didn't go unnoticed.
A few heads turned.
James cleared his throat lightly.
"Sir…"
No response.
Rege's attention remained fixed on his phone.
"The show had its reasons for choosing Bran."
—
Maya shook her head slightly, a small, amused disbelief crossing her face as she read his reply.
"I don't agree. Jon Snow should have been king. He was noble. It suited him."
She hit send, her fingers moving faster now.
—
Rege's lips curved again.
There was something about the way she spoke—so certain, so unfiltered—that made it impossible not to respond.
"Your point is valid."
—
"Sir…"
James tried again, a little firmer this time.
Still nothing.
Rege didn't look up.
Didn't acknowledge the room.
Didn't acknowledge anything that wasn't on that screen.
—
Then Maya paused.
Her smile faded slightly—not completely, just enough for awareness to slip in.
He said he was resuming work today.
Her fingers stilled.
Then moved again.
"I'm certain you're busy, so we'll talk later. Have a lovely day."
—
Rege stared at the message for a moment.
Then a quiet chuckle left him.
Soft.
Almost amused.
"You too, Krasota."
He sent it, placed the phone down, and turned his chair back toward the table.
His expression shifted instantly.
Composed.
Cold.
Untouchable.
"Now," he said evenly, "let's continue."
And just like that—
The room fell back into place.
—
Maya finished her meal slowly.
But she couldn't focus on it.
She tried reading afterward, curling up on the couch with a book she had been enjoying the previous day.
The words blurred.
She read the same paragraph twice.
Three times.
It didn't stay.
Her thoughts drifted.
Back to him.
To the conversation.
To the ease of it.
With a quiet sigh, she set the book aside and reached for her laptop instead.
Writing helped.
A little.
The words came slower than usual, but they came.
Until even that wasn't enough.
"Let's watch something," Adela suggested from across the room, her tone casual but knowing.
Maya didn't argue.
They settled into the living room, the soft glow of the television filling the space as the opening scene of The Blossoming Love played.
One episode turned into another.
And then another.
Time slipped by quietly.
The story pulled her in just enough to distract her—to keep her from checking her phone every few minutes.
For a while—
It worked.
Evening came quietly—
Not with noise, not with chaos—
But with the soft, unmistakable sound of the door unlocking.
The faint click carried through the penthouse just enough to draw attention without demanding it.
Tatiana stepped in.
Composed as always. Effortless. Controlled.
Her heels touched the floor in steady, measured steps as she moved inside, setting her bag down with quiet precision.
She didn't need to raise her voice.
"Dinner."
One word.
Simple.
Final.
It wasn't a suggestion. It never was.
Maya, Adela, and Cassie exchanged brief glances—small, knowing, almost amused—but none of them argued.
They never did.
Because with Tatiana—
There was no negotiation.
—
Dinner passed in a calm, structured rhythm.
Cutlery against porcelain.
Soft conversation.
Occasional silence that wasn't uncomfortable, just… contained.
Maya spoke when spoken to, smiled when expected, but her thoughts weren't entirely there.
They drifted.
Slipped.
Returned—again and again—to something she couldn't quite name.
Or perhaps—
Someone.
Later that night—
Rege stepped into his penthouse.
The door closed behind him with a muted sound, sealing him into a space that felt vast and quiet in a way that never quite registered as loneliness—until now.
The lights were low.
City lights stretched endlessly beyond the glass walls, casting reflections that blurred the line between inside and outside.
He loosened his tie as he walked further in, the tension of the day still sitting somewhere beneath his composure.
But before anything else—
Before removing his jacket.
Before setting anything down—
He reached for his phone.
Almost instinctively.
His thumb hovered only briefly before he typed.
"Have you eaten?"
He sent it without overthinking.
Without questioning why that was the first thing he wanted to know.
—
Maya was still in the living room when her phone lit up.
She hadn't been expecting anything.
Not exactly.
And yet—
The moment she saw his name—
Her lips curved.
Soft.
Immediate.
Uncontrolled.
"Yes I have."
She replied almost at once, her fingers moving faster than her thoughts.
Rege's expression didn't change immediately.
If anything, the shift was almost imperceptible—something that happened beneath the surface before it ever reached his face.
Then—
A faint curve touched the corner of his lips.
Subtle.
Brief.
But real.
He turned slightly, setting his phone down on the counter—not far, just within reach—as he moved into the kitchen.
The space was quiet, untouched since morning.
Everything exactly where it had been left.
He rolled his sleeves up to his elbows with slow precision, the motion practiced, unthinking. A habit rather than a decision.
Water ran.
A pot was set in place.
The soft sounds of preparation filled the silence—not loud enough to distract, just enough to exist.
Routine.
Controlled.
Grounding in a way nothing else had been all day.
His phone lit up again.
He didn't rush for it.
But he didn't ignore it either.
He reached for it only after turning down the flame slightly, his movements measured, unhurried.
"Have you also eaten?"
His eyes lingered on the message for half a second longer than necessary.
Then—
"About to."
He sent it simply.
No embellishment.
No pause to reconsider.
But his gaze remained on the screen for a moment after, as though the conversation itself had quietly taken precedence over everything else around him.
Only then did he set the phone down again—
Close.
Within reach.
As if, without acknowledging it—
He expected it to light up again.
Maya glanced at the message, her brows knitting just slightly.
"It's late. Eat quickly and get some rest."
—
"Okay."
Rege replied after a brief pause, transferring the noodles into a bowl, the steam rising faintly before beginning to fade.
He leaned back lightly against the counter, lifting a fork.
—
Her next message came before he could take a second bite.
"Or are you still at work?"
—
"No."
Short.
Direct.
He took a bite, chewing slowly, his gaze drifting briefly toward the city beyond the glass.
—
There was a pause on Maya's end.
A small one.
But deliberate.
Her fingers hovered over the screen for a moment longer than necessary.
Then—
"At a girlfriend's place?"
The message looked light.
Playful.
But beneath it—
There was something quieter.
Something testing.
Something uncertain.
—
Rege stilled.
Not visibly.
Not in a way anyone else would notice.
But internally—
Something paused.
Then settled.
"I am still a bachelor, Krasota."
—
Maya's shoulders relaxed before she even realized they had tensed.
"Okay," she replied, her tone softer now, even through text.
"Then eat and rest. We'll continue tomorrow."
Rege didn't respond immediately.
The fork in his hand stilled halfway to his mouth as his phone lit up again. For a moment, he simply looked at the screen, the glow reflecting faintly in his eyes.
Then he lowered the fork.
Set it down.
His attention shifted completely.
"How was your day?"
He sent it without overthinking, but he didn't return to eating. Instead, he leaned slightly back against the counter, one hand resting beside him, the other still holding his phone.
Waiting.
—
Maya read the message as she sat in the living room, her attention long gone from everything around her.
Her lips curved faintly.
"My day was okay. And yours?"
She typed it easily, though the answer felt too simple for everything the day had actually been.
She stood as she sent it, her movements slow, unhurried, as if there was no need to rush anything anymore.
Her phone remained in her hand as she walked toward her room.
—
"My day was wonderful."
The reply came quickly.
Too quickly to be accidental.
"Tell me more about your day."
—
Maya paused just inside her room.
The door remained slightly open behind her, but she didn't close it.
Something about the way he said that—
Not ask.
Not insist.
Just… tell me—
Made her smile.
Soft.
Unforced.
She moved toward her bed and sat down, the mattress dipping slightly beneath her weight before she leaned back against the headboard.
"My day might be a little boring to you."
—
In the kitchen, Rege exhaled quietly through his nose, something almost resembling amusement settling in his expression.
"Tell me."
—
Maya shifted slightly, tucking one leg beneath her as she settled more comfortably, her back relaxing against the pillows.
"Well…"
Her fingers hovered for a second before continuing.
"I read for a while."
She paused briefly, her gaze lowering to the screen.
"Then I worked on my book."
There was something quieter in that line—something she didn't emphasize, but didn't hide either.
"And Adela and I ended up binge-watching a Chinese drama. I doubt you know it."
A faint smile lingered on her lips as she typed the last part.
Then—
"The Blossoming Love."
She hesitated.
Just for a second.
"I'll tell you more about it next time I see you."
—
Rege had already left the kitchen by then.
The glass door to the balcony slid open with a soft, controlled sound, and the night air met him immediately—cool, steady, grounding.
He stepped out, the city stretching endlessly before him.
Lights flickered across buildings, distant movement barely noticeable from that height.
He rested one hand against the railing, the metal cool beneath his palm.
His phone remained in his other hand.
His gaze fixed on the screen.
"When?"
—
Maya read the message almost instantly.
Her lips curved again, a little more this time.
There was something about the directness of it.
The lack of hesitation.
"I can't tell."
She sent it, her expression soft but unmistakably playful.
—
Rege's jaw tightened just slightly.
Not in frustration.
Not quite.
His fingers adjusted against the railing, his grip tightening for a brief moment before easing again.
A pause settled.
Short.
But present.
"I am just a floor above you."
The message appeared.
Then another followed, without delay.
"Rest your pretty head, Krasota."
—
Maya let out a quiet breath.
She hadn't realized she'd been holding it.
Her shoulders relaxed as her gaze softened, the tension she hadn't acknowledged slowly dissolving.
"Rest now, Goodnight Krasota."
Her smile deepened at the second message.
"Goodnight, Rege."
She replied softly, her fingers moving slower now, as if the moment itself had settled into something gentler.
—
She placed the phone down on the bedside drawer.
Carefully.
Not because she had to—
But because she wanted to.
Her body sank into the mattress, her head resting against the pillow as she turned slightly to one side.
The room was quiet.
Still.
And for the first time that entire day—
Her thoughts didn't race ahead of her.
They didn't circle.
They didn't pull her in different directions.
They simply…
Settled.
A small, lingering smile remained on her lips as her eyes closed.
Sleep came without resistance.
Without interruption.
As if her body had been waiting for that exact moment to let go.
—
Out on the balcony, Rege remained still for a while longer.
The phone in his hand dimmed.
The city continued beneath him, indifferent to everything.
But he didn't move.
Didn't check anything else.
Didn't reach for anything else.
That feeling—
Quiet.
Unfamiliar.
Uninvited—
Stayed.
And he didn't push it away.
Eventually, he stepped back inside.
The shift was immediate.
Cool night air replaced by stillness.
The faint light in the kitchen remained on, casting soft shadows across the counter.
His food sat where he had left it.
Untouched now.
Cold.
He walked over, stopping just short of the counter as his gaze settled on the bowl.
For a moment—
He considered it.
Then picked it up without hesitation and rinsed it away.
No effort to salvage it.
No second thought.
The sound of running water filled the space briefly before fading again.
He poured himself a glass of water, drinking it slowly, his movements measured, controlled.
—
His room was dim when he entered.
He closed the door behind him quietly.
The laptop was already where he had left it.
Waiting.
He sat back against the headboard, opening it with one hand, the screen lighting up his face in a soft glow.
Work filled the screen.
Numbers.
Emails.
Decisions waiting to be made.
And he attended to them.
Efficiently.
Precisely.
But not completely.
Because his thoughts—
Without permission—
Drifted.
Not to the day.
Not to the meeting.
Not to anything that should have held his attention.
But to her.
To the way she spoke.
The way she paused.
The quiet pride in her words when she mentioned her writing.
The ease in her tone when she forgot to be careful.
And that feeling—
That quiet, unfamiliar sense of ease—
Didn't fade.
Didn't confuse him the way it should have.
Didn't demand to be understood.
It simply stayed.
Settled somewhere deeper than he cared to examine.
Growing.
Slowly.
Silently.
And for once—
He didn't try to control it.