The Year The Billionaire Promised Me Forever

Chapter 6

Sophia’s POV

Loud enough that I was sure, if Colton could hear it, he would know exactly how precariously balanced my composure really was.

I shifted slightly on the edge of the sofa, trying to find a comfortable posture, but comfort had abandoned me the second I stepped into the room. Every nerve in my body was alive, every sense heightened. The faint hum of the city outside, the soft ambient lighting, even the subtle scent of his cologne lingering on the air, it was overwhelming, and yet, I didn’t want to look away.

Colton finally broke the silence, leaning back just a little and fixing me with that calculated, unreadable gaze. “Are you planning to stay long here?” he asked, voice even, calm, but carrying that subtle undercurrent of curiosity I’d come to recognize in him.

I blinked, uncertain how to respond, and he elaborated, just slightly. “The summit… it’s ending soon. What’s your plan?”

“I… oh, of course,” I said, forcing a smile that was more reflex than confidence. “I’ll be going back home. New York.”

He nodded, just barely, as though that was exactly what he’d expected to hear. “Ah. I’m headed back there too,” he said smoothly, but there was a softness in his tone now, a nuance of anticipation that hadn’t been there before. “I would… like to see you once we’re both back. Formally. We should exchange numbers, contact information.”

I blinked, caught off guard by how calmly he phrased it, how… reasonable it felt. Somehow, in the whirlwind of the past days, the brief collisions, the snubs, the polite but charged conversation, it all crystallized here, now. “Yes,” I murmured, voice barely above a whisper, but it carried a weight of agreement I hadn’t realized I was ready to give.

He nodded, satisfied, and with a small, almost imperceptible smile, he gestured toward the table beside us. “Eat. You must be starving.”

I glanced down. The table had been quietly set: a modest but elegant arrangement. A plate of roasted salmon with a delicate drizzle of lemon butter, accompanied by a small heap of perfectly roasted baby potatoes and a side of sautéed asparagus. A glass of chilled white wine stood waiting, condensation forming tiny droplets that reflected the soft glow of the room.

I laughed softly. “This is… very civilized for a private summit VIP room.”

“You deserve it,” he said simply. “Go on. Eat.”

I hesitated, watching him for a fraction longer than necessary, before allowing myself to pick up the fork and take a careful bite. The salmon was perfectly cooked, tender and flaky, the potatoes crisped just right, the asparagus retaining that satisfying snap. It was comfort in a way that no food should be able to provide, and yet, here it was, acting as a grounding tether to the storm of my emotions.

We ate. Not in silence, not in conversation exactly, but in the quiet intimacy of shared presence. One glance would suffice to communicate more than words ever could. His eyes would flick to mine, or he would adjust slightly in his seat, and my pulse would stutter. I wasn’t entirely sure I had control over my composure anymore.

Eventually, he left, Colton Greene. Smooth, controlled, utterly commanding even in retreat. He didn’t linger. No unnecessary goodbyes, no theatrics. Just a quiet acknowledgment, and he was gone.

I sat back, letting the quiet settle around me, but it was not the kind of quiet that felt empty. It was full. Full of possibilities, full of anticipation, full of every unspoken word that had passed between us in the past few days.

When I returned to the suite, Emily was already waiting. She had been patient, giving me space, and now her curiosity was palpable. “So?” she asked, lounging comfortably with a cup of coffee in hand. “Do I need to prepare for shock, fainting, or tears?”

I laughed softly, nearly spilling my own tea in the process. “He… it went…” I stopped, shaking my head slightly. “Emily, it went better than I expected.”

She arched an eyebrow, leaning forward. “Better than polite? Better than icy snub?”

I nodded, recounting every detail: the formal yet soft conversation, the careful exchanges, the mutual agreement to reconnect in New York. Emily listened, rapt, her expressions shifting between delight, shock, and the occasional teasing grin.

The next morning, I woke to the gentle sunlight filtering through my curtains. Emily had already left a note for me on the bedside table: “I left early. You’ll need to be ready by 10:30. See you at the lobby. –E”

I stretched, feeling a mixture of excitement and nervous anticipation. Today, I realized, the summit was ending, but our story was only beginning. I showered, brushed my teeth, washed my face, and kept my makeup minimal: a hint of blush, a sweep of mascara, lips soft and natural. Hair tied into a loose bun that gave the illusion of effortless elegance.

By the time I stepped into the corridor, I felt like I had rehearsed this moment a hundred times in my mind. And then I saw him. Colton Greene. Not surrounded by the usual entourage. Not encircled by the constant storm of admirers. Alone. And for the first time, my heart did not skip, it leapt.

“Good morning,” he said, voice casual but low, carrying that same magnetic weight that made everyone pause.

“Good morning,” I replied, startled. It was disarming, this was the man who had snubbed me, who had left me uncertain, now greeting me as if nothing had ever happened.

“Heading out?” he asked, glancing at the itinerary in my hands.

“Yes,” I said, smiling softly. “We have a few final sessions before heading home. New York.”

He nodded, and something in the way he acknowledged my answer made me feel like this wasn’t a mere pleasantry. Like the tiny exchange was a bridge across the distance that had existed before.

The rest of the day passed in a blur of closing panels, last-minute networking, and farewells. We exchanged final smiles, nods, and pleasantries, but the moments with Colton were fleeting, each time I thought I would speak to him again, the crowd moved, or he vanished into the background of busy associates.

By the time the final shuttle to the airport arrived, I had caught only a glimpse here and there, each time leaving me both satisfied and yearning. We had exchanged contact information, yes, but the fleeting nature of the interactions made my chest tighten.

Emily, ever the observant friend, noticed my wistful glances. “You’re not the first to be disappointed by brief goodbyes,” she whispered, squeezing my hand. “But at least now, you have a way forward.”

I nodded, hiding the longing behind a polite smile. “I just… won’t be the first to reach out.”

Back in New York, the familiar chaos of home wrapped around me like a comfortable blanket. My parents greeted me warmly, Tristan teased me mercilessly, and for a few blissful hours, the world narrowed down to family.

Emily stayed the night, of course, her presence seamlessly folding into the rhythm of my home. We cooked together, shared stories, laughed, and drank tea that was slightly too sweet, just like we liked it.

The next morning, we returned to work at Emily’s company. The first day was uneventful, but my mind wandered more than I intended. No messages. No calls. I tried to focus.

The second day passed in similar fashion, my attempts at concentration continually sabotaged by the quiet hum of my phone and the persistent thought of him.

By the third day, my fingers itched to reach out, my resolve shaking. But I didn’t. Not yet. I had promised myself restraint.

And then, finally, the message came.

A simple text: “Sophia, I apologize for the delay. Things have been… complicated. May we talk?” —Colton Greene

My chest tightened. Relief. Excitement. Nervousness. A thousand conflicting emotions bundled into one shivering thrill.

And that was the beginning. The real beginning, as far as I could tell. Our conversations started simply: nothing monumental, just fragments of days, observations, shared thoughts. The weather in New York, the latest summit highlights, light teasing about coffee preferences, small victories at work, the mundane woven with personal reflections.

Hours became messages. Messages became small calls. Calls became deeper exchanges. Every conversation felt like peeling layers, each revelation a delicate brushstroke painting a portrait of someone both captivating and impossibly intricate.

We spoke about everything and nothing. About books, films, childhood memories, ambitions, fears. He listened, really listened, and I began to find myself speaking in ways I hadn’t in years. There was laughter, occasional silence, and moments where even a single word held weight.

I realized, as I lay in bed one night, phone cradled carefully, that I was already thinking about him constantly. Already feeling the pull of curiosity, the spark of something far more than casual interest.

The beginnings of something real. And terrifying. And thrilling.

Something that might just change everything.