Collision Course
795 Words
Damian’s Pov
A week prior
The conference room at Vexora Group had been tense. The Celvian representatives, polished and exact in every word, sat across from me.
One of the representatives leaned forward and said,
“We need a proprietary cream formula no one else has, something truly unique.” voice was crisp, eyes locked on me. I nodded, keeping my expression neutral. I thought—something rare enough that the market hasn’t seen it yet.
Elara, my PA, sat beside me, laptop open, fingers flying across the keys as she took notes. I glanced at her, appreciating her focus.
“Your reputation precedes you,” the representative continued. “We trust Vexora can source this ingredient, and our marketing strategy will follow.”
I smiled politely. “We’ll do our very best,” I said.
Right after the contract was signed, we sealed the deal.
Mentally filling the request into my ever-expanding database. Assigning Elara to the task had been simple; finding someone with access to an ingredient that might not even be in circulation yet would be the challenge.
The week since then had been a flurry of calls, emails, and international contacts. Suppliers claimed exclusivity, and yet I refused to settle for anything less than perfect.
Elara had been relentless. Every lead had been checked or dismissed. Every dead end reminded me how rare this truly was.
Now, stepping into Café Solelii, I was looking for two things—my morning coffee and a few quiet minutes to gather my thoughts. Early morning light spilled across the floor, illuminating the polished wood tables and the faint scent of roasted beans.
The soft hum of conversation mixed with the hiss of the espresso machine—mundane, ordinary, almost comforting.
I moved toward the counter, checking my phone for Elara’s latest updates. My eyes scanned a PDF Elara sent as I sorted through suppliers’ names and formulas on my phone. Ten more minutes of coffee before the hunt continues, I thought, already calculating the next steps.
Then…
The heat hit.
She gasped at the exact moment I did. Coffee splashed on her trousers, unmistakably, and my stomach dropped.
“Oh,” I said automatically. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t looking… ar—are you okay?”
She laughed, but there was no humor in it. Her eyes dropped to the spreading stain, and I followed her gaze. Grey pants. Clean lines. Ruined now.
Something about how put-together she was made the mess feel worse.
“Does it look like I am?” she said, her voice sharp, still staring at the damage.
The edge in her tone caught me off guard. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just tired. Like this wasn’t the first thing to go wrong today.
She was shorter than me, just enough that I had to look down when she finally lifted her head—caramel-toned skin, neat accessories that looked intentional, not excessive. A brown jacket that complemented her shades, woven into her slick back ponytail. It was hard not to notice how composed she looked, even angry.
I grabbed a napkin from the counter, dabbing at my sleeve even though the coffee wasn’t on me. Too hard. Useless.
“I really am sorry,” I said again, quieter this time.
She nodded once, like speaking any more might push her over the edge. Her shoulders were tight, jaw set.
“I’m fine,” she said, though it was apparent she wasn’t. Her voice was clipped, controlled.
She looked up fully then, and I became uncomfortably aware of how calm I probably appeared—clean clothes, steady hands, like this was an inconvenience and not a disaster.
“I really am sorry,” I tried again. “Let me—”
“As I said, it’s fine!” she snapped, already stepping back.
She grabbed her bag, the ruined coffee still in hand, and walked away without waiting for a response.
I watched her go, the door swinging shut behind her. For a second, I just stood there, cupless, hands empty, the smell of coffee still hanging between us.
I walked to the counter and ordered my coffee. The barista slid it across, and I took it without really tasting the moment. My eyes drifted back to the door she’d left through.
Why had she been that annoyed this early in the morning?
The question came uninvited. Not accusatory. Just curious. People didn’t snap like that unless they were already carrying something heavy.
My phone buzzed.
Elara: “Sir, the meeting has been moved forward. The clients are already on their way.”
I glanced at the time, then took one short sip.
“Five minutes,” I replied.
I stood up, picked up my cup, and left the café.
- Writer
