The drive across town to Cypher Tech’s headquarters felt both endless and far too short. Every red light gave me more time to overthink, to wonder what Patrick was expecting from tonight, to question whether I was making a huge mistake.

When I finally pulled into the parking garage beneath Cypher Tech’s building, the space was mostly empty except for a few expensive-looking cars and one sleek black motorcycle that I suspected belonged to Patrick. The sight of it made my stomach flip.

I checked my reflection in the rearview mirror, wishing I’d had time to change into something more impressive than my wrinkled teal shirt and khakis. But there was no time for second-guessing. I grabbed my purse and headed for the elevator.

Cypher Tech occupied a gleaming glass tower that caught the early evening light. The building screamed success—the kind that made my modest life feel very small in comparison.

I wondered if Patrick thought the closer to God, the better his odds of success.

The lobby was all polished marble and modern art, designed to announce that serious money was made here. A middle-aged woman in an expensive pantsuit greeted me at the front desk with a professional smile.

I set my purse on the counter and reached for a pen to sign the visitor log.

“Welcome to Cypher Tech,” the receptionist said. “Who are you here to see today?”

“Mr. Henson,” I managed. “I have an appointment at—”

“Ms. Mayar?” She glanced at her screen, and her demeanor shifted instantly. “Oh! Mr. Henson’s been expecting you.” She stood, gesturing toward a separate elevator bank. “Let me escort you up personally.”

She led me to a private elevator with a sleek black panel instead of regular buttons. “This is Mr. Henson’s private elevator,” she explained, swiping a key card through the reader. The panel glowed soft blue before the doors opened. “It goes directly to the executive floor.”

She stepped inside with me, inserted the key card into a slot beneath the buttons, and pressed forty-two—the top floor, naturally. The card stayed in place as she stepped back out. “The elevator will return it automatically when you arrive. Have a wonderful evening.”

The doors closed, and the elevator shot upward so smoothly I barely felt it. I watched the numbers climb—twenty, thirty, forty—feeling the pressure build in my ears with each floor.

I did a quick sniff of my armpits, praying my deodorant hadn’t betrayed me. The elevator chimed at forty-two, and naturally—because my life was apparently a comedy—the doors slid open while my nose was still dangerously close to my armpit.

The key card popped out with a soft click. I snatched it and shoved it into my purse, then dropped my arm in a series of panicked, jerky movements that would’ve made anyone watching think I was having an episode.

I peered out cautiously. Empty. Thank God. No one had witnessed my elegant arrival.

I stepped out of the elevator, rubbing my hands over my shirt to smooth out the wrinkles. The office was enormous, dominated by a conference table that could easily seat twenty people. The floors were polished hardwood that probably cost more per square foot than most people’s monthly rent, and the lighting was warm and inviting rather than the harsh fluorescents I was used to at Nexus Creative Group.

But what truly took my breath away were the floor-to-ceiling glass windows that wrapped around the entire space, offering a breathtaking view of the city and the bay beyond. The sun was setting, painting the sky in brilliant shades of orange and pink that reflected off the water like liquid fire.

It was the kind of view that made you feel like you were on top of the world—literally and figuratively.

This was definitely not the sterile conference room I’d been picturing.

The setup was unexpectedly intimate despite the grandeur of the space—two place settings arranged at one end of the massive table, wine glasses catching the amber light. Two dome-covered platters sat between them, looking like they’d been lifted straight from an elegant five-star dining experience. It looked less like a business meeting and more like a date in the sky.

I walked over to one of the chairs and hung my purse on the back before settling down, my eyes still drinking in the incredible view. The contrast between this and the cramped, windowless conference room at Nexus Creative Group was almost laughable. Patrick had built himself quite an empire.

The elevator dinged softly behind me, and I turned to see Patrick stepping out. My breath caught in my throat all over again. His jacket was gone, and his dress shirt sleeves were rolled up to his elbows, revealing intricate tattoos that swirled up his left forearm in dark, mesmerizing patterns that disappeared under his sleeve. I’d definitely never seen those before—they were something new since high school, probably acquired during whatever wild years he’d hinted at.

The tattoos looked like they might be Celtic knotwork mixed with something more modern, all done in black ink that stood out starkly against his tanned skin. They suited him, adding an edge to his polished CEO appearance that reminded me of the rebellious boy I’d once known.

His signature smirk was firmly in place as he approached the table, and I noticed a manila envelope in his hand. The playful expression I remembered from our youth was still there, but more controlled now, more deliberate. Like he’d learned to weaponize that charm over the years.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, setting the envelope on the table between us but not opening it yet. His voice was warm but professional, giving nothing away. “I hope the building wasn’t too hard to find.”

“Not at all,” I replied, trying to match his professional tone despite my racing pulse. “It’s… impressive.”

That was an understatement. The whole place screamed success in a way that made my modest life feel even smaller in comparison.

His smirk widened slightly, and I caught a glimpse of the cocky boy I remembered. “We do alright.” He gestured toward the silver platter in front of me. “I took the liberty of ordering dinner. I figured we might be here for a while discussing the project.”

The word “project” hung in the air between us, and I couldn’t shake the feeling that we weren’t just talking about marketing campaigns. But I latched onto the business terminology like a lifeline, desperate to maintain some semblance of professionalism.

“Project,” I repeated, straightening in my chair. “Right. What exactly are you looking for from Nexus Creative Group?”

Patrick leaned back in his chair, his fingers drumming once against the manila envelope. The movement was casual, but his gaze was intense as he studied my face. “Well, that depends. What can you offer me, Ms. Mayar?”

The way he said my name—formal but with just a hint of something deeper underneath—sent a shiver through me. There were layers to that question that had nothing to do with advertising, and we both knew it.

I cleared my throat, trying to shift into the professional mode I’d been practicing during the drive over. “We specialize in comprehensive marketing campaigns,” I began, falling back on the pitch I’d rehearsed countless times. “Brand development, social media strategy, traditional advertising, influencer partnerships…”

Patrick nodded, but his green eyes never left my face, like he was studying every micro-expression. “And what makes Nexus Creative Group different from the dozens of other agencies I could hire?”

I could sense him evaluating not just my answer but how I delivered it. “We focus on authentic storytelling,” I said, gaining confidence. “Building genuine connections between brands and consumers rather than just pushing products. It’s about creating emotional resonance, not just brand awareness.”

“Authentic storytelling,” he repeated slowly, leaning forward. “I like that. Tell me, what’s Cypher Tech’s story, in your opinion?”

This definitely felt like a test now, but it was one I was prepared for. I’d spent the afternoon researching his company.

“From what I researched, you’re positioned as the privacy-conscious alternative in a market saturated with companies that exploit user data,” I said, feeling more confident as I got into my element. “Your story isn’t just about technology—it’s about digital freedom and putting control back in users’ hands. It’s David versus Goliath, but in the tech world.”

Something shifted in his expression, the practiced smirk fading into genuine appreciation. “Go on.”

“The challenge is making privacy feel personal rather than technical,” I continued, my hands gesticulating as I became more animated. “Most people know they should care about data security, but they don’t truly grasp why until it’s too late. They hear ‘encryption’ and ‘data protection’ and their eyes glaze over. Your marketing should make privacy protection feel empowering, not paranoid.”

Patrick opened the manila envelope and slid a thick document across the table. “This is our current market position analysis. Tell me what you see.”

I picked up the papers, grateful for something concrete to focus on besides his stare. The numbers showed impressive growth but some concerning trends in user acquisition costs. The data was more detailed than anything I usually saw at Nexus Creative Group—Patrick was giving me access to serious insider information.

“Your customer lifetime value is strong,” I said, scanning the charts and graphs, “but you’re spending too much to acquire each new user. The conversion rates suggest people love the product once they try it, but they’re not finding you organically.”

“Exactly.” He pointed to a specific chart with a long finger. “We’re competing with companies that have unlimited advertising budgets—Google, Facebook, Apple. How do we cut through that noise without breaking the bank?”

I studied the numbers more carefully, my mind racing through possibilities. This was the kind of strategic thinking I’d been dying to do at Nexus Creative Group but never got the chance. Mr. Martin kept me stuck writing ads for discounts while the senior agents handled the real challenges.

“You need to stop thinking like a tech company and start thinking like a movement,” I said finally, looking up from the papers. “Word-of-mouth marketing is still the most powerful tool there is, especially for privacy-conscious consumers who are already skeptical of traditional advertising.”

Patrick raised an eyebrow, clearly intrigued. “Meaning?”

“User-generated content campaigns. Instead of paying for expensive ads that people will skip or block, incentivize your existing customers to share their stories. Create a hashtag campaign around digital independence—let people show how they’ve taken control of their online privacy.” I was getting excited now, the ideas flowing faster than I could organize them. “Partner with privacy advocates, sponsor digital literacy workshops, maybe even create a documentary series about data exploitation by the big tech companies.”

“That’s…” Patrick paused, his fingers steepled under his chin as he considered my suggestions. “Actually brilliant. But how do we measure ROI on something like that?”

I flipped to the next page of his analysis, pointing to specific data points. “You track engagement metrics, brand sentiment, and organic reach. Plus, educational content builds trust, which your conversion data shows is crucial for your demographic.” I traced my finger along another chart. “Look at your customer surveys—people cite ‘trust’ as the primary reason they chose Cypher Tech over competitors. That’s your competitive advantage right there.”

Patrick leaned back in his chair, and for the first time since I’d arrived, his expression was purely admiration. No smirk, no hidden agenda—just genuine respect for my analysis.

“You’ve been at Nexus for three years and you’re still a junior agent?” he asked, anger edging into his voice.

Heat crept up my neck. “Mr. Martin has… specific ideas about advancement.”

“Mr. Martin,” Patrick said, his voice dropping dangerously low, “seems to have specific ideas about a lot of things.”

The temperature in the room shifted, and I remembered how Patrick had positioned himself between me and Mr. Martin last night. The protective anger in his voice now made my pulse quicken, but also reminded me of the complications that came with this whole situation.

“This isn’t about him,” I said quickly, trying to steer us back to safer ground. “This is about what’s best for your company.”

Patrick studied me for a long moment, searching my face like he was trying to read my thoughts. “Is it?” he asked softly.

The question settled between us, heavy with implication. I stared at him, confused and hopeful at the same time.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said a little defensively.

Patrick sat back in his seat, never breaking eye contact. The professional mask he’d been wearing since I arrived finally started to slip, revealing glimpses of the boy I used to know underneath all that corporate polish.

“Ashleigh,” he said, his voice gentler now. “Do you really think this is coincidence? When companies like Nexus want my business, I tell them to send their most overlooked employee—the one who deserves better but keeps getting passed over. And then you walked through that door.”

His words hit me hard. I looked down at the woodwork on the conference table, trying to process what he was saying. All the professional talk, the market analysis, the dinner setup—none of it was really about business.

“I haven’t stopped thinking about the last time you kissed me,” he said, his voice dropping to almost a whisper. “Standing under that old oak tree in the empty lot near my house, the way you curled your fingers in my hair, the heat in that moment, before you just… walked away. Not even looking back to say goodbye.”

The memory crashed over me—his hands on my waist, the taste of summer and desperation on his lips, the way my world had been falling apart even as he held me together. Uncle Gordon had been gone for two weeks, and I’d been drowning in grief, barely functioning. But in Patrick’s arms, for just a moment, I’d felt like I could breathe again. I could still see the sun filtering through those oak leaves, creating patterns of light and shadow on his face as I made the hardest decision of my young life—to turn around and walk away from the only boy I’d ever loved, knowing it would break both our hearts but believing it was the only way to save us both.