Chapter 1: The Art of Keeping Distance
1167 Words
Rain painted the city in silver streaks as Selina Duong stood silently by the floor-to-ceiling window of her penthouse office. The skyline of Saigon was blurred in monochrome hues—gray buildings stacked against a darker sky, headlights smearing across wet pavement like fireflies in retreat. The storm had rolled in quickly, unannounced, like most things she didn’t invite into her life.
She wore a tailored cream blazer over a high-neck black silk blouse, her posture impossibly straight. One hand held a sleek coffee mug, untouched and cooling. Her reflection stared back at her in the glass—composed, elegant, untouchable.
A woman who built an empire around solitude—and wore it like armor.
Behind her, the soft knock of her assistant barely broke the silence. “Ms. Duong, the investor packet for Horizon Complex has arrived. I’ve left it on your desk.”
Selina nodded, not turning. “Thank you, Mai.”
The door clicked shut, leaving her once again in a curated silence she had designed for herself. She turned and walked to her desk, where a stack of proposals, projections, and profit charts waited. Her life was a series of strategic decisions—no margin for spontaneity, no room for risk.
She liked it that way.
Plans were controllable. People weren’t.
Her phone buzzed.
Mom: “They invited your father to Lan’s engagement ceremony. I thought you'd want to know.”
Selina stared at the message. A tiny flinch in her fingers. Then, without hesitation, she locked the screen and turned the phone face-down. That name always brought a quiet ache—sharp but familiar, like touching a half-healed wound.
She reached for the investor packet instead.
Meanwhile, across the city, in a sun-washed studio with scattered books and plants thriving in old ceramic pots, Damien Vu hovered over his drafting table. His hands, smudged with graphite, moved in rhythmic strokes across parchment. Outside, the rain tapped gently on the windows, unnoticed.
He paused, lifted the pencil, and sighed. The outline he was working on was beautiful—technically perfect—but somehow lacked spirit.
His mind had wandered again.
To her.
The first time he saw her was three weeks ago at the gala for urban renewal investors. He hadn’t expected much—another evening of forced smiles and slick business pitches—but then she walked in.
No fanfare. No lingering glances around the room.
Just presence.
She wore navy like power, not elegance. Her hair was swept up, no jewelry except a minimalist watch. Her gaze was clear and unmoved. People parted for her without her needing to speak.
He'd been intrigued instantly.
He’d tried small talk. She had replied with precision, not warmth. When he’d mentioned art, she had raised an eyebrow and said, “Aesthetics don’t build empires.”
He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since.
They met again at the unveiling event of a new luxury property—ironically, a partnership between his firm and hers.
The lobby buzzed with camera shutters and curated smiles. Damien stood beside a scaled model of the development, answering questions from reporters. And then he saw her. Same poised gait. Same calm fire in her eyes.
He stepped forward.
"Ms. Duong," he greeted, offering a respectful nod. “Or should I say the strategist who turned an overlooked site into Saigon’s next skyline icon?”
Selina arched an eyebrow. “Flattery is a weak opener, Mr. Vu.”
He smiled, unshaken. “Then let me try honesty. You’re fascinating.”
For a heartbeat, the corners of her mouth twitched—almost amused. Almost.
They stood side by side, the model city between them. He explained his inspiration for the design: the interplay of space and memory, the role of light in urban intimacy. She listened, arms crossed, sharp gaze occasionally softening.
For a moment, she saw him—not the architect, not the potential collaborator—but the artist. Someone who built not for profit, but for meaning.
It unsettled her.
Interest was dangerous.
She had spent years mastering the art of distance—not indifference, but calibrated withdrawal. Close enough to engage. Distant enough never to bleed.
“Coffee after this?” he asked lightly.
“No,” she replied with a polite smile.
“Another time, then.”
He said it like a promise.
That night, in her high-rise apartment where shadows moved like quiet dancers along the walls, Selina poured herself a glass of red wine. She curled into her favorite armchair, bare feet tucked beneath her, and stared at the skyline.
Her thoughts betrayed her. They kept circling back to Damien Vu. His words. His gaze. His refusal to be dismissed.
She hated how part of her admired that.
Her mother had once loved someone who refused to see her pain. Who traded loyalty for pride. Selina had watched the cracks form in her mother’s voice, the way her posture folded in on itself over the years. She had memorized every moment as a lesson.
Don’t expect anyone to stay. Don’t depend. Don’t feel too deeply.
She had built her world accordingly.
And yet…
Three days later, a package arrived at her office. No sender. No wrapping. Just a sleek box tied with minimalist black ribbon.
Inside was a rare book: Sacred Spaces of Vietnamese Architecture. On the first page, a handwritten note:
“For the woman who sees buildings as currency. Here’s a glimpse of their soul. —D”
She stared at it for a long time.
She didn’t message him back.
But that night, she read until page seventy-three.
The gala that followed two weeks later was grand and predictably artificial. Flashing cameras, champagne towers, rehearsed compliments. Selina wore a black silk gown with a plunging backline—elegant, simple, devastating. A whisper of vulnerability masked in power.
He found her before anyone else did.
“You look—” Damien began.
“Please don’t say ‘beautiful’.”
He chuckled. “I was going to say ‘unreachable’.”
She turned, faint smirk on her lips. “Is that your way of flirting, Mr. Vu?”
“No. That’s my way of saying I haven’t stopped trying.”
They ended up near the balcony, away from the noise. The city spread before them like an infinite story waiting to be rewritten.
“Do you ever let anyone in, Selina?” he asked, voice low.
She sipped her drink, gaze distant. “Why would I?”
“Because some doors aren’t meant to stay locked forever.”
She looked at him for a long time. “And some locks are there for protection, not punishment.”
They didn’t kiss. They didn’t touch.
But when she left that night, her chest ached in a way it hadn’t in years.
A silent c***k had formed. Small. Invisible. But present.
And cracks—no matter how fine—let in the storm, or the light.
She wasn’t sure which she feared more.
To be continued...
- Writer
