Amara woke up tangled in confusion. The kiss—or whatever that was—kept playing on repeat in her mind like a broken record. Damien had always been... straightforward. Intense, unreadable, but never inappropriate. So what was that?
A kiss on the cheek wasn't scandalous. Not really. But coming from him—Mr. Intimidating, Mr. Billionaire, Mr. Don't-Cross-This-Line—it meant something. And that "something" was exactly the kind of unclear mess she didn't have the mental bandwidth for.
She sighed, dragging herself out of bed and stretching with a soft groan. Her mind ran circles. Half the time, she didn't know what he was thinking. He hid it too well—behind that guarded smile and silent stares. And it was exhausting.
Before she could get lost again in analyzing the ten-second moment, her phone rang. The screen lit up with one word:
Mom.
She swiped immediately. "Hi, Mom."
"Amara, how are you doing?" Her mom's voice carried that suspicious mix of cheerfulness and tension. Amara narrowed her eyes. She knew that tone. Something had happened—either beautifully good or disastrously bad.
"I'm... alive," she mumbled, still half-asleep. "What's going on?"
Balancing the phone between her ear and shoulder, she grabbed her toothbrush and walked to the bathroom. Multitasking was her therapy.
Her mom hesitated, then said, "I'm pregnant."
Amara froze. The water bottle in her hand slipped and clattered to the tile. "Wait. What?"
"I'm pregnant," her mother repeated, voice much too calm for the emotional earthquake she'd just triggered.
"How?" Amara blinked at her reflection. "Is it Dad? I swear if it's him—"
"No, no," her mom quickly cut in. "It's not your father. I've been seeing someone."
Amara groaned. Loudly. "Oh great. Even you found love. Meanwhile, I found confusion."
"I love him," her mom said, dreamy and defiant. "And he's okay."
"'Okay' better be capable of buying diapers," Amara muttered, rinsing her mouth. But her sarcasm melted the moment she imagined a tiny hand curled around her finger. A little sister. A baby.
Despite everything, a soft smile pulled at her lips. She loved babies.
After the call, Amara got dressed, packed her lunch, and steeled herself for the day. She had one mission: avoid Damien at all costs.
It was a solid plan—until she stepped into the office and walked straight into him.
"Morning," he said curtly, barely sparing her a glance. His tone was indifferent, businesslike.
Crisis averted? Maybe.
Later that morning, Damien called for a meeting. Amara slipped in quietly and took a seat near the end of the conference table, determined to be invisible.
And he made it easy. He didn't look her way. Didn't speak to her. He only asked for documents when necessary, passing them across the table like she was just another assistant.
But what Amara didn't know was that Damien was fighting a war with himself.
The moment she walked in, wearing a simple blue dress that shouldn't have done damage but did, his resolve cracked. Her scent—light, sweet, maddening—reached him before her footsteps did. His heart kicked up like it had no sense of protocol.
He kept glancing at the silver watch on his wrist, only to roll down his sleeve and hide it again—nervous habit. She made him nervous. What the hell was that about?
After the meeting, he didn't linger. Just nodded and walked out.
Back at her desk, Amara exhaled. If this was his way of pretending nothing happened, then fine. She could pretend too.
She just wanted to go home, curl up in bed, and delete men from her mental storage.
On her way to the coffee vending machine, she ran into Noah, a junior marketing associate who had been hovering around her since Day One.
"Hey," he smiled, pushing his glasses up. "You surviving this place yet?"
"Barely," Amara chuckled. "But I haven't passed out in the restroom, so that's a win."
Noah grinned. "Progress. Want sugar in that coffee—or are you sweet enough?"
Amara gave him a look. "Cringe."
"Worth a try," he shrugged, and they both laughed.
Unbeknownst to them, Damien had just stepped out of his office—and froze at the sight.
Amara. Laughing. With Noah.
His jaw tightened before he could control it. His brain told him to keep walking. But a darker voice inside him asked a very different question:
"Would it really be unethical to fire Noah?"