“CRAZY IN LOVE, MR. CEO?”

Chaper 3: The Moment We Passed

Ryan sat before the soft glow of his computer screen, the quiet hum of the city faint behind the glass walls of his office. His slender fingers rested lightly on the mouse, scrolling through the meager lines of information about the girl named Mia.

“Mia — Fine Arts major, University of the Arts London,” he murmured under his breath. “Interesting.”

A handful of brief descriptions, several photographs from an art exhibition, and a short biographical paragraph appeared on the screen. Under the cool blue light, his gaze lingered on one particular image — the girl standing beside her painting. Her eyes held a glimmer of pride, yet beneath it was something fragile, hesitant, as if she was still unsure whether she truly belonged there.

There was something about her expression — that blend of quiet shyness and unguarded sincerity — that made her stand apart from all the confident faces he had grown used to in both the art world and the world of finance. There was no vanity, no deliberate charm, only a quiet light, humble and unpretentious, the kind that didn’t demand attention yet somehow refused to be forgotten.

She looked like someone stepping into the vastness of life for the first time — nervous, awkward, yet achingly sincere. Amid the crowded gallery, surrounded by voices and laughter and clinking glasses, she seemed curiously apart, as though she didn’t quite belong to that bustling world. There were no extravagant dresses, no deliberate flair — just a simple brown trench coat, a light turtleneck, and plain jeans. Yet that image lingered in his mind like the echo of a forgotten melody — delicate, unassuming, and strangely captivating.

Ryan leaned back in his chair, fingers tapping lightly against the table. His mind drifted to the painting she had created — that field of gold beneath a vast sky, with a lone figure seated amid the wind. Something about those colors, about the loneliness in that horizon, struck a quiet chord within him. There was a tenderness in her work — and in her eyes — that made him feel reluctant to look away, as if he had stumbled upon something too pure, too fleeting, something that might vanish the moment he dared to reach for it.

He exhaled slowly, almost as if to shake the thought away.

“Just a young artist,” he told himself, but the calm he sought refused to come.

The rational part of his mind — trained, analytical, detached — tried to dismiss it all. Yet his thoughts kept circling back to her — to those eyes, that uncertain smile, the way she seemed both within and beyond her own creation. The sparse fragments of information he could find about her only deepened his curiosity. Perhaps, he thought, some people were meant to be discovered, not researched.

He propped his chin against his hand, eyes half-closed in thought. The image of her painting returned once again — the endless sky, the wind-swept figure — and the strange sense of recognition that had stirred in him earlier returned stronger this time.

Had he seen her before? Or was it simply that her soul felt like something he had once known?

The door to his office opened gently, the rhythmic click of heels breaking the stillness. Isabella, graceful as always, stepped in — her movement fluid, her presence light yet unmistakably assertive.

“Ryan,” she said softly, her voice carrying a playful lilt. “You were so deep in thought. I knocked, but you didn’t answer. I almost thought you’d gone to the meeting room.”

Ryan turned, his expression momentarily caught between surprise and composure. “What is it, Isa?” he asked, the calm of his tone quickly returning — the poised voice of the CEO once again.

“I wanted your opinion on this proposal,” she said, placing a neat stack of papers on his desk. “It’s detailed, and as our main investor, you should at least take a look.”

He offered her a faint smile, pushing the folder gently back toward her. “Your project, your call. You know I don’t have much interest in these art ventures.”

Isabella took a seat opposite him, her eyes narrowing playfully, yet with something thoughtful beneath.

“Something wrong?” Ryan asked, his tone softening. “You look like you have more to say.”

Her lips curved into a knowing smile. “Maybe I do. Tony told me you were asking about a painting recently… or rather, about its artist.”

Ryan turned slightly in his chair, voice even but faintly defensive. “I bought the piece, Isa. Naturally, I’d want to know where it came from.”

“Of course,” she said, chuckling softly. “It’s just—” she paused, her gaze distant for a moment. “I met Mia this morning. Would you like to hear what she said about her painting?”

He sighed quietly, avoiding her eyes. “Do you think I have the time for that? You should focus on your project, Isa. Don’t make me regret funding it.”

But Isabella wasn’t the type to be dismissed easily. She leaned forward, resting her elbows on her knees, voice low and warm. “You’d like her, Ryan. She has this way of speaking — calm, unhurried, as though each word carries its own rhythm. There’s something gentle yet steady in her presence. She doesn’t just paint; she feels the world. I don’t think you’ve ever met someone quite like that.”

Ryan said nothing. He flipped through a few pages of her proposal, but his mind was no longer there. The name Mia lingered in the air, soft as dust motes drifting through sunlight.

Isabella tilted her head, watching him with a faint smile. “I think,” she said teasingly, “you might actually like her.”

Ryan looked up, brow arched. “Don’t start,” he said dryly. “You know I don’t care for sentimental nonsense.”

She laughed lightly. “Maybe not. But feelings have a way of finding you — even when you’re not looking for them.”

The room fell into a brief hush. The muted tick of the clock filled the space, along with the faint rustle of London’s wind against the windows.

Night settled gently over the city, wrapping London in its amber glow. The rain had ceased, leaving the streets slick and shining, reflecting the soft light of street lamps and the muted gold from passing cars.

Mia walked slowly along the Thames, her long coat brushing against her knees, her breath misting faintly in the cool air. The river shimmered beside her, a ribbon of silver beneath the bridges. The scent of damp grass and distant rain hung in the air — that peculiar scent only London nights could hold.

She didn’t quite know why she came here — perhaps it was a habit, or the quiet pull of the water, or maybe just the need to breathe. After a day full of noise and conversation, she longed for silence — for the kind of quiet that doesn’t feel empty but instead fills every part of you.

Her footsteps echoed softly against the pavement, steady, rhythmic, blending with the sigh of the wind. Across the street, a group of people emerged from a riverside restaurant, laughter spilling into the night.

Among them was him.

Ryan.

Tall, composed, his black coat framing the outline of his broad shoulders. The faint glimmer of streetlight brushed across his hair, the calm on his face both familiar and distant.

For one suspended second, their paths crossed.

Just a few steps apart.

Mia stopped, her heart tightening in her chest.

He didn’t notice her — or perhaps he did but chose not to show it. His gaze passed through the crowd, unhurried, unreadable. Then he kept walking, blending into the tide of people that flowed endlessly through the city night.

She turned slightly, her eyes following him until his figure began to fade into the blur of light and motion. There was a quiet ache in her chest — not sharp, not painful, just… sadly tender. Her lips curved into a faint smile that even she didn’t quite understand.

“Maybe,” she whispered softly to herself, “we’ll meet again.”

And perhaps she meant it — or perhaps she simply wanted to believe in the kind of coincidences that only happen once.

Ryan, too, felt it.

As he stepped into the moving crowd toward the waiting black car, a strange awareness prickled at the back of his neck — a gaze, gentle but unmistakable, brushing against him through the chill of the night. He paused, turning slightly.

The world before him was a blur of faces and motion — strangers, laughter, the distant hum of London life. Yet in that fleeting moment, something within him searched — as if for a pair of eyes he’d known long before he ever saw them.

But there was no one. Only the shifting crowd, the cold air, and the faint gleam of streetlights dissolving into mist.

He lingered a heartbeat longer, before exhaling quietly and stepping forward again.

Still, the unease remained — that hollow tug in the chest when one realizes they have missed something important, something meant for them but lost in the current of time.

When he reached his car and the door shut softly behind him, his gaze drifted to the window — the glass fogged faintly from the warmth of his breath. The city lights blurred into streaks of gold and white, gliding past as the car moved on. His eyes searched unconsciously through the misted reflections, hoping — absurdly — to catch a glimpse of something, someone, that he already knew was gone.

But all he saw were the ghostly shapes of the city — the soft glow of street lamps and the shadows of rain-soaked buildings. No familiar face. No trace of her.

A quiet emptiness settled over him, deep and persistent. He leaned back, closing his eyes, letting that ache dissolve slowly into the rhythm of his breathing. It was not sadness, not exactly — more like the faint sorrow of realizing that sometimes, life lets two paths brush against each other only to drift apart again, too soon, too quietly.

Outside, the wind carried the scent of London’s night — a mixture of rain, river, and something intangible. The kind of scent that holds memories you’ve never lived. And beneath that endless London sky, two souls — so close for a heartbeat, yet worlds apart — carried the same quiet ache neither would ever name.