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015 - Déjà vu

The number of times I blinked after that statement could probably qualify as a medical emergency.

I had always believed Mom’s marriage to Anthony was perfect. The way she talked about him made it sound effortless —like he could read her moods even before she spoke, like loving him didn’t require any work at all. It simply happened as naturally as breathing.

Had all of that been a façade?

I parted my lips to speak, but a dull ache formed at my temples. On second thought, I didn’t have the emotional stamina for whatever Liz was about to dump on me next.

“Just tell Mom I’ll visit Harlem this weekend,” I said instead. “I think... no, I’ll definitely be free. But right now, I need to leave.”

Liz chuckled, finally leaving my window frame.

“Oh, you’d tell her yourself? How responsible of you. Let’s pretend we never ran into each other, and I never told you any of that.”

“Liz!” I called.

“What? she said, already stepping away. “Do I look like someone with nowhere to be? My man’s waiting.”

“It’s just a simple errand. Do you nag for a living?”

“I learned from the best.”

“Sis...” she added with mock sweetness, glancing over her shoulder briefly, before walking down the street.

My phone buzzed.

[5 mins to Mr. Langston’s meeting.]

I exhaled.

For the very first time, seeing his name on my screen felt like divine intervention.

A way to escape Liz’s theatrics, mom’s emotional baggage, and this alley that would always remind me of how my car got wrecked on the first day.

Now I had to make it to Williamsburg in five minutes, even if the map very clearly read twenty. Which meant my already traumatized car was about to endure another round of abuse as I'll swerve through traffic and avoid highways, unless I wanted a ticket for my busted windshield.

“I’ve got this.” I assured myself, riding off instantly.

Five heart stopping swerves and three near collisions later, I screeched into the parking lot of Everston Holdings.

I didn’t need anyone to lecture me on why he was widely respected.

His building screamed it.

It stretched high above the street, arrogant and commanding, just like him. The jaw - dropping design were far too bold for a mere office.

I trailed my eyes upward, ready to explore the depth of the architecture when I saw him standing on the rooftop terrace, a digital camera in his hands, his wristwatch glittering exactly like it did in the interview, giving me that sick feeling of déjà vu.

He was casually dressed in a fitted white shirt with the top button undone, the fabric stretched cleanly against his broad shoulders, tucked into dark navy trousers cut perfectly to his frame. His gaze stayed fixed on me.

I averted my eyes and walked into the building. Inside, cool, filtered air from the AC drifted through the room.

“Are you Miss Thompson?” a lady asked.

I turned.

She was a brunette. Tall and stunning. The kind of polished beauty my ex used to remind me he preferred.

“Yes,” I said, forcing a polite smile.

“Mr. Langston is on the terrace. He’s been expecting you.”

I clutched my folder tighter, lips parting just slightly to hide my teeth.

“This way.” she requested.

Our heels clicked rhythmically against the tiled ground as I followed her to the elevator.

By the time we reached the top floor, my feet were beginning to ache from the day's events.

Mr. Langston stood near the railing, completely engrossed in the camera, studying the frame with sharp concentration.

“Thank you, Claire,” he said without turning, pressing the shutter.

Claire gave a small bow before leaving, flashing me a quick wink on her way out.

Friendly, apparently.

Then it was just me and my company’s most important client.

Minutes passed. Still, he continued scrolling through the shots, as if I didn't exist. He lifted the camera one more time, aiming at the skyline. My patience was beginning to wear thin and when a sharp sting shot through my foot, I cleared my throat in frustration.

“Was that Morse code?” he said, glancing over his shoulder.

“If you’re trying to get my attention, you could just say my name.”

He calmly returned to business .

I stared at the back of his head.

“You scheduled this meeting for three o’clock.”

“Your time says three?”

My mouth opened, then slowly closed.

“You know,” he continued calmly, “for someone who lectured me about professionalism, I didn’t expect you to be late. Again.”

“Especially after I helped your sorry self during that interview. I don’t usually hand my card to strangers.”

The terrace fell silent.

I bit back the urge to give reasons for being late. At this point, I might actually get fired. He looked undeniably pissed, like we’d had a history.

“I’m sorry I’m late,” I said. “It won’t happen again.”

He said nothing.

“I brought several profiles that might interest you,” I continued, holding up the folder. “Based on my observations, they match your kind of personality.”

“The likes of Cecilia Lau...”

“My personality?” he interrupted.

He lowered the camera onto the railing and looked at me for several long seconds.

“Tell me,” he continued, walking toward me. My eyes followed every move, anxious about where this was going.

“What exactly,” he asked, stopping a little too close, “do you mean by my kind of personality?”

“I didn’t mean it like that,” I said, breathing.

My brain tried desperately to focus on the conversation, but my eyes roamed - scanning his slightly furrowed brows, his sharp jawline, and those piercing eyes that dared me to look away.

Dashing. Intimidating. Completely distracting.

The spike in my pulse forced my attention back to the moment.

“According to your file,” I said quickly, “you prefer partners who are confident and independent. A woman capable of challenging you intellectually. She shouldn't be intimidated by your status, wealth, or—”

A slow smirk appeared on his face.

He nodded thoughtfully, sliding his hands into his pockets and looking away.

I wasn’t sure how to interpret that reaction.

But I knew I had stated exactly what I read in his dossier.

I discreetly brush my palm against my thigh, shifting my weight off my aching foot.

He walked toward a leather chair in the corner, where a few magazines had been left on a small table, and then placed his digital camera on top of them.

“We could sit and go through the profiles,” I suggested.

He didn’t move.

“I’m sure your legs will forgive me too,” he said.

“You’ll have this meeting standing."

“Consider it a practical reminder that time is a very serious concept in my schedule.”