HE ASKED ME ANYWAY
1152 Words
Seven-thirty meant I arrived at seven-twenty.
I was not going to be the person who walked into Damien Cross’s office late, unprepared, and visibly unraveling.
I was composed.
Professional.
Completely unaffected by the fact that I’d dreamed about him again four hours ago and woken up with his voice still sitting warm in my chest.
Lena met me at reception with the same efficient smile.
“He’s expecting you. He asked that I bring breakfast up rather than use the boardroom. I hope that’s all right.”
Not the boardroom; Something smaller. More private.
Completely fine, I told myself.
His office sat at the end of the hall. Corner-facing. Floor-to-ceiling glass. The city stretched out below like an offering.
A small table had been set near the window. Two places.
He was standing at the glass when I walked in. Back to me. Hands in his pockets.
I paused for exactly one second. Then I kept walking.
"Mr. Cross...."
He turned. Found me immediately.
"Ms. Reyes..." His gaze moved over me, quick, professional, and something underneath that wasn’t. “Thank you for the early start.”
"Of course..." Lena set down the tray and disappeared.
Then it was just us.
And the city. And that particular silence I was beginning to recognize as his.
We sat. He poured coffee without asking how I took it.
Black. No sugar. I hadn’t told him that.
I looked at the cup, then at him.
“Lucky guess,” he said. It didn’t look... like a guess. I opened my portfolio. “I have the full proposal…”
“In a moment.” I looked up.
He was watching me the same way he had on Friday. Steady. Patient. Like I was something he was working out.
“I owe you an apology,” he said. That wasn’t what I expected.
“For?”
“Calling you directly. That should have gone through Lena.” A pause. “It was an unusual choice.”
“It was,” I agreed.
“I don’t usually make unusual choices.”
“I believe that.”
Something shifted at the corner of his mouth. “You’re not going to ask why.”
“No.”
“Why not?” “Because I think you’ll tell me when you’re ready.”
That almost-smile again. Private. Controlled. Stop recognizing things.
We moved to the proposal.
He was sharp, exact, efficient, cutting straight through surface details to the structure underneath. When he asked questions, they mattered. When I answered, he listened like someone who didn’t pretend to be interested.
He just had it.
“This section.” He turned the document slightly. “The language here is careful.”
“It’s a sensitive area for the Foundation.”
“It’s careful because you weren’t sure I’d accept it.”
I met his gaze. “Yes.”
“I accept it.”
“Just like that?”
“Just like that.” He leaned back slightly. “You lead with instinct. When you trust it, the work is exceptional. When you second-guess it, it shows.”
Something landed in my chest I didn’t have a name for.
“You got all that from one presentation.”
“I got it from ten minutes of watching you decide whether to include that section.”
I stilled. “You were watching me that closely?”
“Yes.”
The word settled between us.
Outside, the city moved, loud and indifferent.
Inside, something quieter shifted.
I looked back at the proposal. Turned a page.
“The timeline for phase two…”
“Nova.” My name, low and unhurried.
I looked up.
“I’ve been trying to work out,” he said carefully, “why you seem familiar to me.”
My pulse jumped. I kept my face still.
“We hadn’t met before Friday.”
“I know.” His gaze held mine. “That’s what I can’t explain.”
Silence.
I should have let it sit.
I didn’t. “Does it bother you?”
He considered that.
“No.” A beat. “That’s the strange part.”
He said it like it meant something.
Like he hadn’t finished understanding it yet.
I looked at him, really looked this time, and felt two years of something pressing hard against the inside of my ribs.
Don’t.
“We should finish the proposal,” I said.
"We should..." Neither of us moved.
Then he reached forward, not toward me, toward the page. Turned it slowly.
But his eyes stayed on my face one second longer than they should have.
Then he looked down.
“Phase two.”
“Phase two.”
We finished an hour later.
The city had fully woken up. Lena had come and gone once, silent as air.
I closed my portfolio.
“There’s a private exhibition on Thursday evening,” he said. “The Foundation is considering them for a partnership. I’d value a second perspective.”
I went still.
“That falls outside the campaign scope.”
“It does.”
“You have people for that?”
“I do.”
I looked at him.
He held my gaze. No smile this time. No distance.
Just intent.
“Mr. Cross…”
“Damien.”
The name landed differently out loud.
I ignored it.
“That wouldn’t be appropriate.”
“Probably not,” he stood, buttoning his jacket in one clean motion. “Thursday. Seven o’clock. The invitation will be at your office by noon if you decide it is.”
He said it like he already knew.
“I have plans for Thursday.”
“Cancel them.”
Not a demand. Not quite, but close.
My pulse didn’t ask permission. It reacted anyway.
I picked up my portfolio.
“Good morning, Mr. Cross.”
“Damien,” he said again. Quiet. Patient.
I walked to the door.
“Ms. Reyes.”
I stopped.
Didn’t turn.
“The invitation will be there at noon.”
I left without answering.
The elevator doors closed.
I stared at my reflection.
He is engaged.
He is my client.
And he had just asked me, directly, deliberately, to spend a Thursday evening with him.
And I had said no.
Technically.
More or less.
The doors opened. I stepped out into the morning, the city loud and cold around me.
My phone buzzed at 11:58.
Delivery notification.
I didn’t need to check.
I stood outside my building and stared at the screen.
You’re already falling, that quiet voice said.
You know that.
I did.
I went inside.
At 12:04, I signed a cream envelope with my name written in clean, dark ink.
At 12:06, I put it in my bag without opening it.
At 12:07, I sat at my desk, opened my laptop, and told myself I had until Thursday to make a sensible decision.
I gave that exactly as much belief as it deserved.
- Writer
