I didn't open Skillar's email. Not that night. Not the next morning. Not even by the time Monday's meetings bled into Tuesday's strategy calls. It sat there in my inbox like a quiet knock on a door I swore I'd locked. Unread. But never forgotten.
I kept telling myself I was busy. That I had bigger things to focus on the A-Country expansion, the legal reviews, the Q4 forecasts. But every time my screen lit up, a flicker of anticipation passed through me like a glitch in my code. I was slipping. I didn't like the sensation; it felt like losing my grip on a cliffside.
Wednesday morning, I arrived at the office early. Even earlier than usual.
The lobby was a cathedral of silence, the city lights still blinking like dying stars outside the glass walls. I poured a cup of coffee I knew I wouldn't finish and stood by the window as the sun began to stain the skyline with gold. I sipped slowly, tasting nothing. Then, against my own iron will, my eyes dropped to my phone. Still unopened:
Skillar Lennox – About the presentation
It had been three days. Most people would have followed up, desperate to close a deal or stay relevant. He hadn't. He'd left the door open quiet, respectful, as if he understood I wasn't ready. Or maybe he just didn't care. That thought stung more than I was willing to admit. Finally, at 7:19 AM, I clicked it open.
Subject: About the presentation
Oriana,
Thanks for the meeting. I'm glad the direction landed. If there's anything you'd like adjusted, I'm happy to refine.
Separately, if this is overstepping, disregard but I'd like to invite you to a gallery opening this Friday. Nothing formal. Just an event I think you'd enjoy. No expectations. Just light, if you're looking for some.
Skillar.
Just light, if you're looking for some.
I stared at that line until the words blurred. He didn't ask for dinner. He didn't ask to "catch up." He didn't flatter or flirt. He just offered an escape. I hated how much I wanted to say yes.
I didn't respond. Instead, I opened the folder on my desk labeled Santos & Vale Acquisition. This was my masterpiece the strategic move that would secure a foothold in the Latin American market and cement my company's international legacy. It was the culmination of a year of predatory due diligence and sleepless nights. It was everything I had ever wanted.
I skimmed the executive summary, but my mind kept drifting back to the river. Back to the wind. Back to the feeling of standing on the edge of everything I'd built and wondering what it was all for.
"Not now," I had whispered. "I still have a promise to keep." But what if the promise was killing me? What if I was already dead inside?
The last time I'd let someone in really in was five years ago.
His name was Marc. He was a journalist, quiet and thoughtful. He made me laugh and didn't flinch at my ambition. Or so I thought. Then came the headlines. An article about "women leaders using masculine energy to dominate the boardroom." He didn't name me, but he didn't have to. He had studied me like a specimen, turning my private vulnerabilities into a case study. When I confronted him, he just shrugged. "It's just business, Oriana. Nothing personal."
I learned then what my mother had always known: love is the most dangerous kind of deal. You give everything, and there is no refund policy. I made a promise that day: never again. Never let someone close enough to see the cracks.
By Thursday afternoon, the email was still staring at me, challenging me. I almost deleted it twice. Then, just before logging off, I clicked Reply.
I drafted something cold: I prefer quiet over crowds. Then I hit backspace until the screen was white. I tried again.
Skillar,
I don't usually go to gallery openings.
But maybe I could use a little light.
Send me the time and place.
Oriana
Sent.
The moment I clicked it, a surge of panic hit me. It felt like stepping off a rooftop without checking if there was ground below. That night, I pulled the photo out of the closet. I didn't just stare at it this time; I laid it flat on my desk. My mother's eyes were so tired, but her smile was real. She held my hand as if she believed in something bigger than her pain.
The girl in the photo the little version of me looked happy. Hopeful. I couldn't remember the last time I'd felt that way. I traced the edge of the paper and tucked it into my wallet. Just for the weekend. Just for me.
Friday.
Anna raised an eyebrow when she saw me in the lobby at 6:45 PM.
"You're... going out?" she asked, her voice tinged with shock.
I shrugged, adjusting my coat. "Networking."
"Is that why you're wearing those earrings? And the red lipstick?"
I gave her a flat look, the kind that usually silenced rooms.
She just grinned. "Call me if it goes weird?"
"I always call if it goes weird."
She paused, her expression softening. "Are you nervous?"
"No," I said. It was a practiced lie, told with effortless ease.
The gallery was tucked into a quiet Midtown street, warm amber light spilling through tall windows onto the pavement. I stepped inside, my heels echoing against the polished wood. People milled about, murmuring over art that blurred between impressionist and abstract.
And then I saw him.
He was across the room in a simple gray jacket and black slacks. No tie. No pretense. Just Skillar.
He turned the moment I looked his way, as if he had a compass set to my location. His smile wasn't wide or dramatic; it was steady. Real. I didn't walk toward him immediately. I stayed by the door for a moment, simply allowing myself to exist in that space.
For the first time in years, I let a dangerous thought take root: Maybe it's okay to want more than silence.