More than his millions

The thing about goodbyes

Lila told herself it meant nothing.

Dinner was just that—dinner. No contracts. No promises. Just wine, pasta, and a little too much eye contact. The kind of evening she could tuck away into her mental scrapbook, label it Curiosity Killed the Capitalist, and move on.

But by Monday morning, Ashton Vale had seeped into her thoughts like ink into paper.

She found herself glancing at the front door more than usual. She arranged the poetry section twice. Even read a Neruda poem out loud just to feel something that didn’t have his name attached to it.

The shop was quieter than usual, but Lila didn’t mind. The slowness gave her space to breathe. To remind herself who she was. She wasn’t the type to get swept away by a suit and an offer. She had roots. History. A business she built from the ground up. No billionaire was going to unravel that with a few good jokes and an expensive bottle of red.

Still, when the door finally opened at noon and Ashton stepped inside, she felt it again—the tug. Not desire. Not entirely. But something that felt like recognition.

“You’re back,” she said, half-smiling. “I was starting to think you were a one-dinner wonder.”

“I don’t think anyone’s ever called me that before,” he replied, closing the door behind him. “Not bad, though. Has a ring to it.”

Lila stepped out from behind the counter, arms crossed but relaxed. “So? What brings you back this time? Another offer?”

“No,” he said. “Just… wanted to say goodbye.”

That stopped her. “Goodbye?”

“I’m heading back to the city. For a few weeks. Meetings, conferences—real life calling.”

“Oh.” The word sat awkwardly between them, like it didn’t belong.

“I wanted to leave things clear,” Ashton continued. “I meant what I said. I’m not here to push. If you never sell, that’s your choice. I respect it.”

Lila studied him. There was no trick in his tone. No glint in his eye that suggested he was bluffing. If anything, he looked—disappointed. Like leaving wasn’t his first choice.

“And the proposal?”

“It’s still in your inbox,” he said. “But it won’t chase you.”

There was silence. A soft, stretching quiet that neither of them rushed to fill.

Finally, Lila said, “You don’t strike me as the type who walks away easily.”

“I don’t,” Ashton admitted. “But sometimes... it’s not about winning.”

She almost laughed. “That line must’ve hurt to say.”

“Physically, yes.”

They both smiled, and for a moment, it was just the two of them. No bookstore. No billion-dollar offer. No tug-of-war between past and future.

Just Lila and Ashton. A girl who wrote poems in the margins of receipts, and a man who wasn’t sure if he was losing something—or finding it.

He turned toward the door.

“Wait,” Lila said suddenly. “I have something for you.”

She disappeared behind the counter, rummaged through a drawer, and returned with a thin paperback.

“What’s this?” Ashton asked, taking it.

“My favorite collection,” she said. “Poems by Adrienne Rich. If you’re going to keep showing up around here, you might as well earn your stripes.”

He turned the book over in his hands. “Will you sign it for me?”

Lila raised a brow. “It’s not my book.”

“Doesn’t matter. I want your name on it.”

She grabbed a pen from the jar near the register and opened the inside cover. For a second, her hand hovered over the page, unsure what to say. Then she wrote something quickly and closed it again.

“Don’t read it until you’re on the train,” she said.

“Not even a peek?”

“Nope.”

He held the book to his chest, mock-saluting. “As you wish.”

Then, with one last glance—a quieter one, softer than any he’d given before—he walked out of the store.

The bell above the door chimed. And then he was gone.

---

He didn’t come back the next day. Or the day after that.

Lila told herself she didn’t care. That she was relieved, actually. Things could settle again. Her life could go back to normal. Quiet mornings. Paperbacks. Poetry and tea. Safe, small comforts.

But that night, she sat in bed and stared at the blinking cursor on her laptop screen. She hadn’t written a single line in days. Words didn’t feel the same.

She kept thinking about his voice, low and steady. The way his hands moved when he talked about business like it was both a game and a responsibility. The way he listened—really listened—even when she was just rambling about the subtle politics of shelf placement.

Then she remembered what she’d written in the book she gave him.

Some things aren’t for sale. Some things are meant to be discovered slowly. Like truth. Or poetry. Or maybe… me.

She buried her face in her pillow and groaned.

He was going to read that on the train. Alone. Probably smirking. Maybe even thinking she meant it romantically.

Which she didn’t.

…Not entirely.