Chapter 5: THE UNLIKELY LESSONS
1273 Words
The second date Izzy arranged was a clash of cultures. After their meeting the morning after his unsuccessful date with Camila, Izzy thought it would be wise to shake things up. Pedro agreed too. He even proposed the idea of different races. He was open to trying all, whatever it was that would open his damned heart. He was ready.
Pedro Valdez stood at the entrance of Sakura, a Michelin-starred Japanese fusion restaurant in Midtown, adjusting his cufflinks with a sigh. Izzy had insisted this match was “culturally enriching”—a Kyoto-born tech CEO named Aiko Nakamura. “She’s brilliant, fluent in four languages, and shares your passion for innovation,” Izzy had said. Pedro had agreed, if only to prove he wasn’t the rigid traditionalist Camila had accused him of being.
Aiko arrived precisely at 8:00 p.m. Her black bob slicked into perfection, her emerald-green kimono blending tradition with modernity. She bowed slightly, her smile polite but distant. “Valdez-san. A pleasure.”
“Likewise,” Pedro replied, pulling out her chair.
The waiter brought a bottle of Sake. Aiko poured with practiced precision. “Izzy tells me you’re expanding into Asian markets. A wise move, though competition is… hidoi.”
“Brutal?” Pedro guessed.
“Hai.” She sipped her sake. “Your algorithm—impressive, but it lacks nuance. Japanese business is about ningen kankei. Human relationships.”
Pedro’s jaw tightened, “Well, efficiency drives results.”
“Efficiency without trust is a house of cards.” Aiko’s tone remained calm, but her eyes sharpened, “Tell me, Valdez-san. Do you have shinrai? Trust?”
The question needled him. Izzy’s voice echoed: “You don’t trust me.”
“Trust is earned,” he said curtly.
Aiko tilted her head. “And how do you earn it? By hiding behind numbers?”
The meal devolved into a debate—Aiko dissecting his strategies, Pedro countering with profit margins. By dessert (matcha tiramisu neither touched), Aiko set down her chopsticks. “You remind me of my father. Stubborn. Afraid to admit when you’re wrong.”
Pedro’s grip tightened on his glass. “This isn’t a therapy session.”
“No,” she agreed. “But perhaps it should be.”
He paid the bill in silence.
---
That night after the date with Aiko, Pedro’s text to Izzy was terse: “Find someone who doesn’t want to fix me. I'd prefer an American.
Izzy responded at 1:00 a.m.: “Third time’s the charm. Emily Carter. American entrepreneur. Tomorrow, 7 p.m.”
He didn’t reply.
---
Emily Carter burst into The Oyster Bar like a hurricane in a pink blazer, her laugh booming across the room. “Pedro! Oh my God, I’ve heard so much about you. You’re, like, the Elon Musk of Spain, right?”
“Barcelona,” he corrected.
“Same difference!” She slid into the booth, ordering a martini before her coat was off. “So, Izzy says you’re looking for a ‘partner.’ Cute. I’m between husbands right now, so perfect timing!”
Pedro blinked. “Between… husbands?”
“Divorced twice, baby. Third time’s the charm!” She winked. “But enough about me. Let’s talk about your brand. Ever thought about a reality show? ‘Billionaire’ meets ‘Shark Tank’—we’d kill it!”
Pedro’s phone buzzed. It was business information. He silenced it.
Emily prattled through the appetizers (oysters she deemed “too slimy”), the entrees (lobster she smothered in ketchup), and the wine (“Can I get a Cosmo instead?”). By the time crème brûlée arrived, she was mid-monologue about her t****k fame.
“—and then I told the haters, ‘Honey, my follower count pays your salary!’ Can you believe—?”
Pedro stood abruptly. “Excuse me.”
He fled to the restroom, splashing water on his face. His reflection glared back: a man trapped in a farce. Izzy’s voice haunted him: “You’re scared to admit you’re human.”
When he returned, Emily was filming a t****k. “Say hi to my future hubby, everyone!”
Pedro was disgusted. He just walked out.
At, Morales Matches later on, drama unfolded.
Izzy paced her office, Sofia’s text burning in her mind: “Can we talk about Papá?” She’d avoided this conversation for weeks, but Carlos’s calls were escalating. “Sofi deserves to know me,” he said last night.
Her intercom buzzed. “Ms. Morales? Mr. Valdez is here. He’s… agitated.”
Pedro stormed in before she could reply. “What was that?”
Izzy crossed her arms. “Emily’s a respected entrepreneur—”
“She’s a clown!” He slammed the door. “First a talkative, then a therapist, now a carnival act—what’s next, a circus acrobat?”
Izzy’s cheeks flushed. “You said to try other races. I did.”
“I didn’t say to punish me!”
“Punish you?” She stepped closer, her voice rising. “You think this is easy? Finding someone for a man who’s allergic to vulnerability? Who pushes everyone away?”
Pedro stilled. “Is that what I do?”
“Yes.” Her breath hitched. “And it’s exhausting.”
The admission hung between them, raw and unguarded. Pedro’s gaze dropped to her lips.
A knock shattered the moment. Sofia peered in, her sketchbook clutched to her chest. “Mamá? I need to talk to you.”
Izzy stepped back, smoothing her blouse. “Not now, Sofi.”
“It’s about Papá.”
Pedro stiffened. “I’ll go.”
“No.” Sofia’s voice trembled. “He’s been calling me. He wants to meet.”
Izzy’s heart stopped. “Absolutely not.”
“Why? Because you hate him?”
“Because he’ll hurt you!”
“You don’t know that!” Sofia’s eyes welled. “He’s my father. I deserve to hear his side.”
Pedro edged toward the door. “I should—”
“Stay,” Izzy snapped, her composure crumbling. “You want to learn about trust? Watch this.”
She turned to Sofia, her voice breaking. “Carlos didn’t just leave, Sofi. He stole from us. From you. Your college fund, my savings—all gone. He’s not a father. He’s a con artist.”
Sofia paled. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“Because I wanted to protect you!”
“By lying?” Sofia hugged her sketchbook tighter. “You’re just as scared as he is.”
She fled, leaving Izzy shaking.
Pedro reached for her instinctively, then stopped. “Izzy—”
“Don’t.” She wiped her eyes. “Just… don’t.”
The next morning, Pedro found Sofia on a bench outside Morales Matches, her sketchbook open to a half-finished portrait of him. He'd just arrived for his session that morning, and also to apologise to Izzy for his outburst the night before.
“May I?” he asked, sitting beside her.
She nodded, silent.
He studied the drawing—the sharp angles of his jaw, the shadows under his eyes. “You see too much.”
“So do you,” she whispered.
He hesitated. “Your father… is he worth it?”
Sofia shrugged. “I don’t know. But I need to find out.”
Pedro handed her a business card. “My security team. If you meet him… use this.”
She took it, tears spilling. “Gracias.”
He stood, glancing at the office window where Izzy’s silhouette paced. “Take care of her.”
Sofia smiled faintly. “You too.”
- Writer
