One breath at a time, Iris.
Play it cool.
Play the bigger plane.
This has nothing to do with the corpse of your past dragging behind you.
We settle into the conference room, the leather chairs creaking softly as we sit. Grace chooses the seat closest to the window, where the dusky orange sunlight spills in, making everything feel a little too cinematic.
I set my tablet and notepad in front of me, hands still steadying as I click the pen once, then again. Nerves are a luxury I can’t afford right now.
Taewon excuses himself. “I’ll let Mr. Astor know you’ve arrived.”
Mr. Astor.
God.
As the door clicks shut behind him, my fists clench under the table. Coffees and snacks arrive, but I’m barely paying attention.
Grace leans toward me slightly, lowering her voice. “This merger could be the highlight of this quarter. Especially if we play it right.” She smiles, warm but sharp-edged—like the comment is both encouragement and a warning.
I nod once. “We’ve got this—I got this.”
Grace starts a light conversation about our earlier flight, something about the rain being oddly cathartic. I reply automatically, keeping my voice even, my smile restrained. My focus is elsewhere. Bracing. Because any second now—
The door opens again.
There he is.
Levi Astor walks in, flanked by warm gold light from the hallway behind him. His frame is tall, broad in all the ways I remember, but sharper now—more refined in posture, more deliberate in presence.
He carries himself every bit like the president he is. His suit fits like it was stitched directly onto him, not a single wrinkle in sight. And on his wrist, a gold watch that catches the sunset light.
He looks—fuck. He looksgood.
His eyes sweep over the room as he steps in. And for the briefest second, I think I notice a flicker when his gaze snags on mine. Maybe shock. Definitely recognition.
But then visible restraint washes over. He smooths his expression so fast I almost question whether I imagined it.
“Ms. Miller,” Levi says, voice even and commanding, extending his hand to Grace first. “Apologies for the wait. Got stuck with a call earlier.”
Grace smiles. “We’ve been well taken care of. And we appreciate you making time on such short notice.”
He nods, then turns to me. “Ms. Desmond.”
I stand, extending my hand. “Mr. Astor.”
His handshake is firm. Polite yet detachedly clinical.
My stomach coils. This is the same man who once spent an entire Sunday baking—burning them, really—lemon squares because I mentioned offhand I liked them. Now he’s offering the same tone he probably gives to every person on his calendar.
I’m not sure whether it’s hurt or belated disbelief coursing through me.
We all sit, and Grace jumps into a brief summary of Miller-Moore’s experience with large-scale merger consultations. Levi listens, nodding occasionally, his fingers folded neatly on the table.
When Grace finishes, she turns to me with the faintest tilt of her head—a subtle, practiced signal.
Your turn.
