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Brian did not return to the café the next day.
Not because he didn't want to—but because he didn't trust himself to. Something about the way Amara looked at him when she spoke, the way she saw past his confidence without effort, unsettled him more than any hostile boardroom ever had. Attraction was easy. Interest was manageable. But this—this felt like exposure.
At work, everything blurred together. Meetings overlapped. Calls went unanswered longer than usual. His assistant noticed.
"You okay?" she asked cautiously as she handed him a tablet.
"I'm fine," Brian replied automatically.
But he wasn't.
That evening, his parents called again.
"You haven't forgotten dinner," his father said, voice calm but firm.
"I haven't," Brian answered.
"And the girlfriend?" Evelyn added.
Brian hesitated. "I'm… working on it."
"That's not an answer," she replied. "Brian, this is not about appearances anymore. We want to know you're capable of choosing something real."
After the call ended, Brian sat alone in his office long after the building emptied. For the first time, the silence didn't feel peaceful—it felt accusing.
Two days later, he went back to the café.
Amara was alone behind the counter, wiping it down slowly. She looked tired. Real tired—not the curated exhaustion of high society, but the kind that came from long hours and responsibility.
"You disappeared," she said without accusation.
"I needed to think," Brian replied honestly.
She nodded. "That's fair."
He ordered his coffee and waited. This time, she didn't brush him off. When business slowed, she leaned against the counter.
"You look different," she said.
"So do you."
"Yeah," she admitted. "Life does that."
They talked quietly—about small things at first. Music. Bad movies. The kind of conversations that felt light but meaningful. Brian found himself laughing without thinking, without trying.
Then Amara asked, "What do you do, Brian?"
There it was.
He paused, choosing his words carefully. "I work in business."
She raised an eyebrow. "That vague?"
"I like to keep work separate."
"Why?"
He met her gaze. "Because people treat me differently when they know."
Amara studied him, then nodded slowly. "That tells me more than the answer would."
Something loosened in his chest.
As he stood to leave, she said, "You're not as shallow as you pretend to be."
He smiled faintly. "And you're not as closed off as you act."
She didn't deny it.
Walking away, Brian realized something important: the mask he wore so effortlessly everywhere else was slipping—and for once, he didn't want to put it back on.
But honesty always had a cost.
And he was starting to understand that the truth—about who he was, what he had, and what he wanted—would eventually test every