CHAPTER 7: THE PULL OF FIRE
1096 Words
CHAPTER 7: THE PULL OF FIRE
The city of Balii hummed with a restless energy that morning. Even the sun seemed impatient, stretching long golden fingers across the skyline as if urging the inhabitants to move faster, to act bolder.
There are days like this.
Sharon sat in her penthouse, arms crossed, staring at the city below through the panoramic glass walls. The thirty-first floor no longer felt like a throne. A lot was creeping already.
It felt like a cage.
She sipped her Alcohol slowly.
Spark a stick of cigarettes.
Someone has told her cigarette cures stress.
How true is this? She didn't bother to find answers.
On the table, she still had her unfinished coffee she tried drinking earlier. Dark and bitter, her mind tracing every move she had made since the beer parlour bet began.
Ten million dollars. One year. A young chef with the world at his feet and a stare that cut deeper than any criticism she had faced in her boardrooms.
She wasn’t used to losing control. Not here. Not with people. Not in life. And yet, every time she saw Billiewhite, the rules of her carefully constructed universe seemed to bend.
By 8:00 a.m., Sharon had summoned her driver this time. But today, she still didn't want a convoy, no entourage, no spectacle. She wanted to feel the city as it was, raw and unpolished. Perhaps to remind herself that not everything could be curated, some things demanded patience.
The car wound through narrow streets, past small kiosks, street vendors, and cafés that smelled of fresh bread and strong coffee. She noticed the way people stared, not with fear or admiration this time, but with curiosity, as if they sensed something new in her.
She pulled up to Harvest Flame. The restaurant looked normal from the outside, quiet, modest, yet elegant in a subtle way. Inside, the usual controlled chaos hummed. Waiters moved with practised efficiency, kitchen staff shouted orders, and the aroma of spices filled the air. But today, something felt different.
Billiewhite was in the kitchen, his apron tied tightly, hands coated with flour. His focus was total, unwavering. Sharon watched him from the doorway, unnoticed, noting the precision in his movements. Every plate plated like an artwork, every gesture intentional. She realized, again, why she had chosen him, not because of looks or even potential leverage, but because of discipline, focus, and integrity.
“Madam Sharon?” The hostess’s voice broke her reverie. She was brought back after a second of mind-wonder.
Sharon stepped forward, letting her heels click against the polished floor. Billiewhite looked up briefly, eyebrow raised. No greeting, no acknowledgement, just observation.
She smiled faintly. Not a warm smile, but one that carried the weight of unspoken challenge.
“I want to speak to you,” she said calmly, entering the office without waiting for an invitation.
He was standing when she arrived, arms crossed, a posture that spoke volumes.
“This isn’t a boardroom,” he said, voice low. “What’s this about?”
“I want to talk. Honestly. Outside strategy. Outside the bet,” Sharon replied.
He paused, studying her face. “Outside the bet, then. What do you want?”
Her gaze softened ever so slightly. “I want to understand why you push me away when I’m trying to include you.”
He exhaled slowly. “Because inclusion doesn’t feel like a gift. It feels like a trap.”
She frowned. “A trap? What do you mean?” sudden.
“You offer opportunity, status, wealth… and call it generosity,” he said carefully. “But it comes with strings. And I don’t like being a project. Or a pawn.”
Sharon felt a pang of irritation. She had never been dismissed so thoroughly, not in business, not in life. But then, the admiration she had always craved, respect, perhaps even affection, danced just out of reach. The desire to earn it burned brighter than any profit margin.
“Billiewhite,” she said, voice steady but softer than before, “I didn’t intend to trap you. I want… I want to show you that my intentions can be genuine. Not just strategic.”
He looked at her, expression guarded. “And why should I believe that?”
Her lips pressed into a thin line. “Because even I don’t play a game I’m not willing to lose honestly. And… I’ve never wanted to lose this one.”
The conversation lingered between them, taut and fragile. Outside, the lunch crowd moved past the restaurant, unaware of the tension contained within.
“I can’t,” he said finally, voice low. “I can’t trust that you see me, and not the bet.”
She stepped closer. “Then let me earn it. No bet. No stakes. Just… you and me. One step at a time.”
He hesitated. His eyes flickered toward the doorway, the kitchen, the life he had built apart from her influence. Then back. And she saw something she had not expected, a flicker of vulnerability.
“Fine,” he said quietly. “One step. But I set the pace.”
She nodded. Relief and triumph mingled in her chest. It was not a full victory, but it was a start.
That evening, Sharon drove home through the city streets alone. The lights blurred past her windshield. She reflected on the day, the words exchanged, and the delicate balance between power and desire.
In the quiet of her penthouse, she poured herself a small glass of wine, tasting it without drinking. Her phone buzzed, a message from Ella.
"Ella is here again," her lips dance.
“So? How did it go?”
Sharon smiled faintly, typing back: Progress, not victory. But progress is enough for now. You love gists a lot."
She set the phone aside, walking to the window. Balii stretched beneath her, glittering with life and chaos.
And somewhere, she realized, the game she had once controlled with certainty was now alive. Wild. Unpredictable. Beautiful in its uncertainty.
Sharon, for the first time in a long time, was willing to step into the fire without knowing exactly how it would burn.
The pull of fire, she thought, was intoxicating.
And she would not look away.
It was the beginning of good things and also the dawn of heart attack if any miscalculation is done here.
Both of them are mentally awake, Billiewhite had his eyes on Sharon anticipating the next step she'll pick on. Sharon has never failed. She wants to navigate like a Don.
- Writer
