When I Stopped Waiting

Episode Two

Chapter 2

Breakfast Above the City

After washing up, I changed into a cream blouse and dark skirt. Monday mornings at Yale Group were never gentle. Charles had three calls before noon, a board meeting at ten, two contracts to review, and a breakfast meeting that had been cancelled because the client’s flight was delayed.

I knew because I managed his calendar.

When I came out, Charles was already in the study.

His penthouse was beautiful in the way expensive places often were, too perfect to look lived in. High ceilings, clean lines, muted colours. Nothing was out of place.

Except, perhaps, for me in the kitchen.

I opened the fridge.

Charles’s housekeeper came twice a week, but she did not cook unless instructed. He disliked most takeaway and forgot to eat when work became difficult. Over the years, feeding him had somehow become one of my unofficial responsibilities.

There were eggs, mushrooms, spinach, smoked salmon, chicken stock I had made earlier in the week, and the sourdough he liked from the bakery near the company.

I took everything out.

By seven ten, the congee was simmering softly on the stove. By seven twenty, I had prepared folded eggs, sautéed mushrooms, blanched spinach, grilled tomatoes, and two slices of sourdough toasted exactly the way Charles preferred: browned at the edges, still soft in the centre.

I made coffee last.

Charles was impossibly particular about coffee.

Too hot, and he would frown.

Too cold, and he would push it away without comment.

Too bitter, and he would drink only half, which somehow felt more insulting than if he rejected it outright.

I had learned the exact temperature he liked.

I had also learned not to feel proud of that.

At least, I tried.

The German call began exactly at eight.

I listened from the kitchen while setting the table.

Charles’s voice carried faintly through the open study door.

“No. That clause cannot remain as written.”

A pause.

“Because it gives them room to delay payment indefinitely.”

Another pause.

“Send it to Mia. She’ll mark it.”

I placed the chopsticks beside his bowl.

Send it to Mia.

Not Miss Bennet.

Not my assistant.

Not even please.

Just Mia.

A name used like a command.

The strange thing was, there had been a time when hearing him say my name in that tone made my heart soften.

Perhaps it still did.

That was the embarrassing part.

At eight thirty-five, Charles ended the call and came out of the study.

He had changed into a dark suit trousers and a charcoal shirt, sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was still damp from the shower. He glanced at the table and sat down without comment.

But he picked up his spoon immediately.

For Charles, that was almost praise.

I sat across from him and poured coffee into his cup.

“Don’t give me too much.”

“You skipped dinner last night.”

“I had coffee.”

“That isn’t dinner.”

“It had milk.”

I looked at him.

Charles took a bite of the folded eggs.

His expression did not change much, but his shoulders relaxed slightly.

I lowered my eyes to hide my smile.

This was how it always happened.

He gave almost nothing, and I made a meal out of it.

For a while, we ate in silence.

Outside the window, sunlight sharpened over the city. Office workers streamed through the streets below, rushing towards buildings where their names were printed on access cards and meeting schedules.

In Charles’s world, my name appeared everywhere.

On emails. On documents. On calendar invitations. On urgent memos sent past midnight.

Everywhere except beside his.

Charles took a sip of coffee.

“It’s different.”

“I changed the beans.”

“Why?”

“You said the last ones had a sour aftertaste.”

“I said that once.”

“Once was enough.”

His spoon paused.

“When?”

“Last Tuesday. After the finance meeting.”

“You remembered that?”

“You dislike it when I’m unprepared.”

Charles looked at me for a moment.

Then he lowered his head and continued eating.

“You’re becoming harder to argue with.”

“I learned from the best.”

This time, he gave a short laugh.

The sound was quiet, brief, and gone almost at once.

But still, I heard it.

And because I heard it, the morning became warmer than it had any right to be.

Charles reached for the folder I had placed beside his plate.

“West City?”

“Yes. The main issue is the compensation clause. The local partner wants flexibility, but if we give them too much, they’ll delay the second payment.”

Charles opened the folder and scanned the first page.

“You think Henderson is behind it?”

“I think Henderson is too cautious to be the one behind it. Someone is advising him.”

“Phillip Corp?”

“Possibly.”

Charles’s eyes narrowed slightly.

“They’ve been moving too quickly lately.”

“I asked Shane to look into their recent acquisitions.”

“You asked Shane?”

“He owed me a favour.”

“What favour?”

“He lost a bet.”

Charles finally looked up.

“What bet?”

I took a sip of coffee.

“He said you would reject the blue tie on Thursday. I said you would reject the grey one first.”

Charles’s expression went still.

“You’re using me for gambling now?”

“Only small-scale internal research.”

The corner of his mouth twitched.

To anyone else, it might have seemed like nothing.

To me, it was almost a smile.

I should not have been so pleased.

A woman turning thirty should have had more dignity than that.

Perhaps it was because the thought had been sitting at the edge of my mind all morning that I said it then.

“My mother called yesterday.”

Charles turned another page.

“Mm.”

“She asked if I was going home for dinner this week.”

“Are you?”

“I haven’t decided.”

“Then don’t go if you don’t want to.”

It was said casually. Coldly, even.

To Charles, most problems had simple solutions. If something was inconvenient, remove it. If someone was difficult, ignore them. If a wound would not heal, work until there was no time to feel it.

If only people were that easy.

I set my spoon down.

“She also said I’m turning thirty soon.”

Charles’s eyes stayed on the document.

“I know how old you are.”

“Apparently, that means I should start thinking seriously.”

“About what?”

I looked at him.

“My future.”

The room became very quiet.

Charles continued reading.

A line appeared between his brows, but his voice remained calm.

“You have one.”

“At the company?”

“Where else?”

I smiled faintly.

“My mother meant marriage.”

The page stopped turning.

Only for a second.

Then Charles picked up his coffee and drank.

“Marriage isn’t something you discuss before work.”

I watched him.

His expression had not changed much. Charles had excellent control over his face. It was one of the reasons he was difficult to read in negotiations and exhausting to love in private.

“She said I should think about finding a suitable boyfriend.”

Charles set the cup down.

The sound was soft.

Still, it seemed to strike through the room.

“Suitable,” he repeated.

“Yes.”

“And did she recommend someone?”

“No.”

“Good.”

I waited.

Charles lowered his eyes back to the file.

“The Henderson meeting should be moved to Tuesday morning. If we delay it past Wednesday, they’ll have time to prepare excuses.”

Just like that, the conversation ended.

No question.

No anger.

No curiosity.

Not even mockery.

Only business.

For a moment, I sat there with my hands resting in my lap, feeling strangely foolish.

I had not expected him to confess anything.

I was not naive enough for that.

But perhaps I had expected him to look at me.

To ask whether I wanted one.

A boyfriend.

A future.

A life that did not begin and end with him.

Instead, he turned another page.

I picked up my spoon again.

“You’re right,” I said. “Tuesday morning is better.”

Charles gave a faint nod, as if satisfied that I had returned to the proper subject.

We discussed Henderson for another few minutes. Then the German contract. Then the upcoming reception banquet. I answered smoothly.

By the time breakfast ended, the congee had gone lukewarm.

Charles had eaten almost all the eggs.

That pleased me.

Again, foolishly.

He closed the file and stood.

“I’ll be in the study.”

“Your car will be downstairs in twenty minutes.”

“I know.”

I began clearing the table.

Charles took two steps, then stopped.

“About your mother.”

My hands stilled over the plates.

I turned slightly.

He did not look at me.

“If she pressures you, ignore her.”

I waited.

That was all.

Charles walked into the study and shut the door.

A small click.

Not loud.

Final all the same.

I stood in the dining room for a while, holding two plates in my hands.

Outside, the city gleamed in the clean morning light. Inside, the penthouse was quiet again.

Too quiet.

I thought of my mother’s voice on the phone.

You’re almost thirty, Mia. You can’t keep living like this. Does Charles have any intention of marrying you? If not, you should find someone suitable.

At the time, I had laughed and changed the subject.

Because how could I explain Charles?

He was my employer.

My childhood almost-friend.

The man whose bed I woke in.

The person who knew my schedule, my habits, my silences, my work, my temper, and still had no name for me outside office hours.

I carried the plates to the kitchen and rinsed them under warm water.

The egg clung stubbornly to the porcelain.

I scrubbed until it disappeared.

Then I dried my hands, returned to the dining table, and picked up the file Charles had forgotten.

On the first page, beside one of my notes, he had written a single word in black ink.

Good.

I stared at it.

One word.

Ridiculous, really.

One word from him, and some tired, hungry part of me still curled towards it like a plant towards light.

After a while, I closed the folder.

Then I carried it to his study, knocked twice, and waited for his voice.

“Come in.”

When I entered, Charles did not look up.

I placed the file beside his hand.

“You left this outside.”

“Mm.”

His eyes remained on the screen.

“Anything else?” he asked.

I looked at him.

There were many things I could have said.

My birthday is next month.

My mother thinks I should find a boyfriend.

I don’t know what I am to you.

I don’t know how much longer I can keep being nothing.

But Charles was already reading his email again.

So I smiled.

“No.”

I turned to leave.

Just as my hand touched the door, his voice sounded behind me.

“Mia.”

I stopped.

“Don’t forget the reception guest list.”

There it was.

The place he knew how to give me.

The place I knew how to occupy.

I lowered my eyes.

“Of course, Mr Charles.”

This time, he did not correct me.