Falling In Love With You

Chapter 13

Sera

The following Monday was a blur of fluorescent lights and the rhythmic tapping of my own pen against the mahogany desk. I was physically in the boardroom, watching a slideshow of market analytics, but mentally, I was still stuck in the red-tinted shadows of The Rusty Anchor.

You’re the easiest read in the room.

Her words were a splinter in my mind, one I couldn't dig out. Every time I looked at my reflection in the glass partitions of the office, I didn't see a successful executive. I saw the "Cupcake" she described—a woman wrapped in silk and expectations, terrified of a little dirt.

"Sera? Your thoughts on the Q4 rollout?"

I blinked, realizing the entire room was looking at me. Elias was at the head of the table, leaning back with a smug expression that suggested he’d been waiting for me to trip up.

"The rollout is standard," I said, my voice sounding hollow to my own ears. "But perhaps it’s too safe. We’re appealing to the people who already own everything. Maybe we should be looking at the people who actually create the culture, rather than those who just consume it.

Elias chuckled, a condescending sound that made my teeth ache. "Culture, Sera? We sell luxury. We don't sell 'culture' from the streets. Let's stick to what we know."

I went quiet. The old Sera would have nodded and moved on. But the Sera who had stood chest-to-chest with a tattooed rebel in a dive bar felt a surge of rebellion.

By the time 5:00 PM rolled around, I was exhausted from the performance. I walked out of the building, but instead of heading toward the waiting town car, I turned the opposite way. I didn't have a plan. Or maybe I did, and I was just too ashamed to admit it to myself.

I walked until the skyscrapers began to shorten and the smell of the city changed from expensive air freshener to the salty, humid scent of the East River. My feet knew the way before my brain did.

I found myself standing in front of the black iron gate of Inked by K once more. It was raining—a light, misty drizzle that was starting to ruin my hair and darken the shoulders of my gray trench coat. I looked at the stairs leading down.

I wasn't wearing the leather skirt today. I was back in my "armor"—a charcoal suit and pearls. I looked like exactly what she hated. But as I stood there, shivering slightly in the damp air, I realized I didn't want to be the "easy read" anymore.

I descended the stairs, each click of my heels on the wet concrete sounding like a heartbeat. I didn't hesitate this time. I pushed the door open.

The bell chimed. The shop was empty of customers, the only sound being the low hum of a space heater in the corner. Kayla was sitting on her workbench, a sketchbook in her lap, a pencil tucked behind her ear. She looked up, and for the first time, I saw her genuine surprise.

She didn't smirk. She didn't call me Cupcake. She just stared at me, her eyes moving from my wet hair down to my soaked heels.

"You again," she said, her voice a low, cautious rumble. "You’re either very brave or very lost, Sera. And it’s starting to rain too hard for you to be lost."

"I'm not lost," I said, my voice surprisingly firm despite the way my heart was hammering. I stepped further into the shop, the door swinging shut behind me with a heavy thud. "You told me I was a tourist. You told me I was afraid of getting dirty."

Kayla set her sketchbook aside, her movements slow and deliberate. She hopped off the bench, landing silently on the balls of her feet. She walked toward me, stopping just outside my personal space. The smell of her—ink, soap, and that faint hint of tobacco—enveloped me instantly.

"I remember what I said," she murmured, her amber eyes searching mine. "So? You come back to prove me wrong? Or did you just miss the hospitality?"

I reached into my bag and pulled out a folded piece of paper. It was a sketch I’d made in the middle of the night—a messy, amateur drawing of a bird breaking through a set of iron bars. It was crude, nothing like the masterpieces on her walls, but it was the most honest thing I’d ever created.

I held it out to her. My hand was shaking, just a little.

"I want this," I said. "And I want you to do it. Right now."

Kayla looked at the paper, then back at me. A slow, dangerous light began to flicker in her eyes. "You want to get inked? In a thousand-dollar suit? On a whim?"

"It’s not a whim," I whispered. "It’s a choice."

She took the paper from me, her fingers brushing mine. The contact felt like a spark of static electricity. She looked at the drawing for a long time, the silence in the shop growing heavy and thick with everything we weren't saying.

"This is going to hurt, Sera," she said, her voice dropping to that honey-thick rasp that made my breath hitch. "And once it’s on there, there’s no going back to the way things were. You sure you're ready for that?"

I looked at her—at the ink on her neck, the fire in her eyes, and the honesty of her world.

"I've never been more sure of anything in my life."