The billionaire CEO who was never mine _until now

Viora's pov I never liked art supply stores. They smelled like stale paper and turpentine, the aisles were always too narrow, and something about the cluttered shelves made me feel suffocated. But here I was—again—because no matter how much I disliked the space, I couldn’t resist the pull of fresh brushes and untouched canvases. I was reaching for a new set of sable brushes when it happened. A sharp clatter. A wet splash. Then the slow, sinking realization that something cold and sticky was dripping onto my foot. Bright red paint. Dripping down my brand-new white sneakers. "Oh, for the love of....." "Oh, shit..." I looked up sharply, my glare locking onto the culprit. He stood frozen, horror painted across his face as he stared at the overturned can in his hands. His dark hair was a mess, his denim jacket was covered in paint splatters, and he looked about one bad decision away from an existential crisis. "I.....oh god, your shoes. I am so, so sorry!" he blurted, dropping to his knees as if sheer panic could clean up the mess. "Wait...hold on....I think I have tissues—" He patted his pockets frantically before realizing he had none. I exhaled slowly, forcing down my irritation. "Tissues aren’t going to help." I lifted my foot, the paint already seeping into the fabric. "These were new, you know." His face twisted in guilt. "Damn. That’s....okay, that’s bad. I can, uh.....pay for cleaning? Or...I don’t know....buy you new ones?" I crossed my arms, studying him. His hands were rough, stained with old colors, and there was a smudge of blue paint on his cheek that he hadn’t bothered to wipe off. "You paint?" I asked, ignoring his frantic rambling. His eyes flickered with surprise before he let out a nervous laugh. "Yeah. Well, I try." "Try?" "Fine, I do murals. Sometimes. When people let me." I raised an eyebrow. "So you’re an artist?" "More like a struggling one." He scratched the back of his head, then suddenly brightened. "Wait—you’re Viora, aren’t you?" I stiffened. "You… know me?" "Of course! Your work is incredible." His face lit up with genuine admiration. "The way you use color? It’s like your paintings breathe. I saw your last exhibit—‘Lost sounds,’ right? That piece with the girl in the red dress—it stuck with me. I swear, I stood there staring at it for an hour. Probably freaked out the security guy." I blinked. People complimented my art all the time, but something about the way he said it,unfiltered, honest.....made something warm stir in my chest. "Well… thanks." I cleared my throat, glancing down at my ruined sneakers. "But that doesn’t fix my shoes." He grinned suddenly, an idea sparking in his eyes. "Okay, how about this? Let me make it up to you. Dinner. My treat. We’ll call it an apology date." "A date?" I raised a brow. "With a complete stranger?" "Not a stranger," he said, offering his hand. "I’m Aman. Now you know me." I hesitated, then shook his hand. His grip was warm, steady. "Fine, Aman. One dinner. But if you take me somewhere terrible, I’m painting your face red next time." His grin widened. "Deal." Our First latte Date Two days later, I found myself outside a small café I had never noticed before. It was tucked between two buildings, its neon sign barely flickering, but the scent of fresh bread and coffee lingered in the air. Aman was already there, leaning against the doorway, hands in his pockets. When he saw me, he pushed off the wall with a lopsided grin. "You actually came." "You sound surprised." "A little. You look like someone who eats at places with cloth napkins." "And you look like someone who steals extra napkins from cafés." He gasped dramatically. "Wow. Judgment before we even eat? I see how it is." I rolled my eyes but followed him inside. The place was warm and inviting—wooden tables, soft lighting, and a quiet hum of jazz playing in the background. Aman led me to a booth near the window and slid into the seat across from me. "Alright," he said, leaning forward. "Tell me something about you that I wouldn’t find in an art magazine." I tilted my head. "That’s an oddly specific request." "Well, I already know you’re insanely talented, probably rich, and a little scary when it comes to your shoes. But what’s something weird? Something you don’t tell most people?" I thought for a moment. "I hate sunflowers." His eyes widened. "What? But they’re so happy-looking!" "Exactly. They look too happy. It’s unsettling." Aman let out a deep laugh, the kind that came straight from the chest. "That’s ridiculous. I love it." I sipped my coffee, watching him. His laugh was easy, like he wasn’t the kind of guy who overthought things. “You’re weird,” I muttered. “Says the girl with an actual vendetta against sunflowers.” “I never said vendetta. I just don’t trust them.” Aman grinned, shaking his head. “Okay, fine. No sunflowers. What about roses?” “Overrated.” “Lilies?” “Decent.” “Cacti?” I paused. “Honestly? Respectable. Low maintenance. Doesn’t beg for attention. My kind of vibe.” Aman let out another laugh, shaking his head. “You’re something else, Viora.” I should’ve left it there. Should’ve finished my latte, made some excuse, and walked away. But instead, I stayed. Let the conversation flow. Let him pull me into his world for a little longer. And when the night ended, when we finally stepped out into the cool city air, he looked at me with a lazy smile and said, “So… can I see you again?” I didn’t say yes. But I also didn’t say no. Which, let’s be real, was basically a yes.