His smile widened, and he stepped closer, his green eyes holding a glint of something I couldn't quite place. "I came across your research on the Wisteria University website," he began, his tone calm but deliberate. "Your paper, The Role of Mental Shortcuts in Critical Decision-Making, was a fascinating read."

I blinked, my guard instinctively rising. "You've read it?" I asked, surprised. The paper had been one of my prouder accomplishments, though I rarely thought of it now. Hearing someone mention it—especially here, like this—felt surreal.

"I have," he said, his lips curving into a faint smile. "Your work captured the intricacies of decision-making in a way that few others do. It's rare to see such clarity and depth."

There was an elegance to the way he spoke, each word measured and intentional. But behind his compliments, I felt something else—a quiet intensity, like he was trying to draw me into something I didn't yet understand. My curiosity stirred, tempered by a deep undercurrent of caution.

"What brings you to the Astaire Hotel?" he asked, shifting the conversation with effortless ease. His gaze, however, remained fixed on me, sharp and probing.

"I'm here with a friend," I replied, glancing toward the event hall where Frida's carefully planned evening was still unfolding. "Frida Harris. She's one of the organizers."

"Frida." He nodded, recognition flickering in his expression. "I've met her. She invited me to the fundraiser."

I studied him, noting the way he spoke of Frida so casually. The pieces didn't quite fit, but I couldn't place why. There was a smoothness to him, an air of confidence that felt both disarming and unsettling.

"Have you lived here long?" he asked, tilting his head slightly, his tone conversational, though his gaze remained unrelenting.

"Not long," I replied carefully, keeping my answers short. His presence felt like a puzzle, and I wasn't sure I wanted to solve it.

Before he could respond, a soft chime interrupted us. He glanced down at his phone, his brow furrowing slightly. Whatever the message was, it seemed urgent.

"I have to take this," he said, slipping the phone into his pocket and meeting my gaze again. "But I'd like to continue our conversation. Maybe over coffee?"

His words were smooth, inviting, but the caution I felt remained steadfast. Still, my curiosity refused to back down. "Maybe," I said, offering a small smile that I hoped would mask my uncertainty.

His grin deepened, as if he could see through my attempt to remain guarded. "I'll hold you to that," he said before turning and walking away, his steps unhurried, confident.

As he disappeared down the hall, the air seemed to settle, but my thoughts did not. There was something about him—something just out of reach. And though I didn't want to admit it, I knew I wasn't going to let it go.

💎💎

As we left the Astaire Hotel behind, the world seemed to exhale, leaving behind the lingering grandeur of polished floors and hushed conversations. The drive home was quiet, the streets passing by in a blur of muted lights. Frida hummed softly to herself, the kind of tune she defaulted to when her thoughts were racing. I stared out the window, letting the silence between us stretch uncomfortably thin.

When we arrived home, the lavender potpourri greeted us like an old friend, its gentle fragrance curling through the air. Frida dropped her keys in the bowl by the door and sighed. "Home sweet home," she said, her voice soft but tinged with a tired edge.

I offered her a faint smile, more out of politeness than anything else, and made my way to the couch. My body sank into the cushions, and I stared at the coffee table, letting my thoughts scatter aimlessly. Frida disappeared into the kitchen, her movements brisk and purposeful. I could hear the clatter of a kettle and mugs, but I didn't feel inclined to help.

A few moments later, she returned with two cups of tea, setting one in front of me. "Alright, Red," she started, her tone light but probing. "Talk to me. You've been quieter than usual since we left the hotel. Is it Alex?"

Her mention of Alex made my jaw tighten, but I shook my head. "It's nothing," I muttered, reaching for the tea. The warmth of the mug did little to soothe the tangled mess of thoughts in my head.

Frida wasn't one to let things go. She leaned back, studying me with those sharp eyes that always seemed to see straight through me. "You sure? Because you've been in a funk all day. And while I get that you've got a lot on your plate, I kind of need you here with me too."

Her words hit me harder than I expected, the weight of her disappointment settling heavily on my chest.

"I'm sorry," I said quietly, not quite meeting her gaze. "I'm just... tired."

Frida sighed, brushing a hand through her hair. "Tired, huh? Ruby, I get it—life's been hitting you from all sides lately. But this fundraiser... it's important to me. I've poured everything into it, and I need you to at least pretend to care. I can't do this on my own."

Her voice wasn't sharp, but it carried a weight that made my chest tighten. I opened my mouth to respond, but the words caught in my throat, tangled up in guilt and frustration. The tension between us pressed down on me, suffocating.

"I need a minute," I said abruptly, standing up and heading for the stairs. Frida called after me, but I didn't stop. My legs carried me to the sanctuary of my room, and I shut the door behind me, leaning against it as the tears threatened to spill over.

I didn't want to lash out at her. Frida didn't deserve that—not after everything she'd done for me. But the weight of everything—my family, past events, even this stupid fundraiser—it was all too much. I felt like a fraud. A therapist who couldn't even manage her own emotions.

The hours slipped by in a haze of restless thoughts. When I finally ventured downstairs, the house was quiet, the soft hum of the refrigerator the only sound. Frida was curled up on the couch, her laptop open on her lap. She glanced up when she saw me, her expression wary.

"I'm sorry," I said, my voice barely above a whisper.

Frida set her laptop aside, giving me her full attention. "For what?"

"For earlier," I admitted, sitting down beside her. "You're right. I haven't been present. And I know how much this means to you. I just... I don't know how to balance everything. Sometimes it feels like I'm failing at everything—my job, my relationships, even being your friend."

Her eyes softened, and she reached over, placing a hand on mine. "Red, you're not failing. You're just human. You've been through a lot, and it's okay to feel overwhelmed. But don't shut me out, okay? I'm here for you—always, but I also need you to care about the things that matter to me too. "

Her words sank deep, unraveling some of the tension knotted in my chest. "I never take your love for granted," I whispered. "I know I'm a mess sometimes, but I'm so grateful for you. For everything you do for me."

Frida reached out, squeezing my hand gently. "You're not a mess, Red. You're just... healing. And that's okay. Just promise me you'll let me help, even if it's just by being here for you. But you've also got to stop being so hard on yourself. You're doing the best you can, and that's enough. It's always been enough."

Her words settled over me like a warm blanket, easing the ache that had taken root in my chest. I let out a shaky breath, feeling lighter than I had all day.

I nodded, the guilt in my chest easing slightly. "I promise. And I'll make it up to you. Let's figure out how to save your fundraiser."

Frida's eyes lit up, a spark of hope returning. "You mean it?"

"Of course," I said, the corners of my lips lifting into a small smile. "We're in this together, remember?"

We stayed up late brainstorming, tossing around ideas until Frida's determination began to outweigh her worry. By the time we settled on a plan—one involving a potential partnership with the casino attached to the Astaire Hotel—the heaviness of the evening had lifted.

Frida's eyes widened, her expression shifting from surprise to excitement. "That... that's actually a really good idea."

As we sat in the glow of the living room lamp, sipping lukewarm tea and scribbling notes on a scrap of paper, I realized just how much I needed this—needed her. The earlier tension between us melting away as we sketched out a plan.

 I felt a sense of peace that had been missing all day. Frida's laughter filled the room, light and unguarded, and for the first time in a long time, I felt like I could breathe again.

🍦🍦

The bell above the ice cream parlor's door rings, a gentle chime that feels almost otherworldly. Inside, the pastel-painted walls and vintage posters evoke a sense of nostalgia, a simpler time untouched by chaos. For a brief moment, I let myself believe I'm just another person here, savoring ice cream without a care.

Alex walks ahead of me, his stride confident but unhurried, and gestures toward a booth tucked into the corner. The bright red vinyl cushions are cracked and worn from years of use, but they lend the place a comforting charm. He smiles warmly as he hands me the menu, though I can feel his eyes studying me, trying to gauge my mood.

I keep my gaze on the laminated pages, pretending to deliberate even though I already know my order—cookies and cream, a familiar taste from days that feel like they belonged to another life. He orders something elaborate with caramel and nuts, his tone casual and friendly, as if we've done this a hundred times before.

The ice cream arrives quickly, and I stare down at the sprinkles on my scoop, their playful colors at odds with the knot of tension in my chest. I take a slow bite, the sweetness melting on my tongue, but it does little to distract me from the discomfort simmering beneath the surface.

Alex breaks the silence first, his voice soft and careful. "I was worried when you didn't show up for coffee yesterday," he says, his eyes searching mine. "I thought maybe I'd done something wrong... or scared you off."

The spoon hovers halfway to my mouth before I set it back in the bowl. My throat tightens. I hadn't expected him to be so direct—or so considerate.

"I'm sorry," I say quietly, my fingers tracing the edge of the bowl. "Things got... overwhelming." It's the truth, but only a fragment of it. The real reason is too tangled up in my insecurities, in the sharp disbelief that someone like him would actually want to spend time with someone like me.

Alex Sterling. He's not just anyone—he's the son of Timothy Sterling, the architect-engineer mogul whose company, Sterling Constructions, practically built half the state. Growing up, I'd occasionally see the family's name in newspapers and magazines: articles lauding their innovations, profiles on Timothy's empire and his relentless pursuit of excellence.

Alex himself was no less impressive. An architect in his own right, he'd carved out a name separate from his father's shadow—a feat few children of powerful men ever accomplish. He wasn't just rich and connected; he was brilliant, charming, and, to my surprise, surprisingly down-to-earth.

But that's what made this so confusing. Men like Alex didn't pursue women like me. They didn't offer coffee dates or sit across from me in worn-out booths eating ice cream. And yet, here he was, as if I wasn't wildly out of place in his world.

Alex nods at my apology, his expression steady, as if he's been expecting this answer. "I get that. Life has a way of doing that sometimes." His lips twitch into a faint smile, but there's a hint of self-awareness in it. "Though I guess it's ironic, me saying that to a therapist."

The corners of my mouth lift involuntarily, and I hate how easily he draws a smile from me. "Thank you. That means a lot," I say, meaning it more than I want to admit.

The conversation shifts after that, flowing to lighter topics—stories about his work, our favorite childhood movies, even a few harmless jokes. I find myself laughing, a quiet, tentative sound that feels strange but good. It's not the kind of laughter that erases all my worries, but it's a start, a reminder that there's still space for levity, even now.

The ice cream parlor buzzes with life around us—children giggle over sundaes, couples share milkshakes, and the faint scent of vanilla lingers in the air. It's a peaceful chaos, and for a moment, I let myself sink into it.

But as my ice cream melts into a sugary puddle, I catch myself watching him. His easy smile, the way he leans forward slightly when I speak, the quiet warmth in his voice—it's disarming. And confusing.

I remember reading about him years ago, in a puff piece about "heirs to watch." He'd been photographed at some gala, wearing an impeccable suit, flanked by his father and the kinds of people whose names open doors. He looked every bit the polished successor. But there were whispers too—about his strained relationship with Timothy. About how Alex had left Sterling Constructions to start his own firm, determined to prove himself.

I'd wondered then what it must be like, to grow up under the weight of such expectations. To have a father who was less a parent and more a brand. Now, sitting across from Alex, I see glimpses of that pressure in the faint tension in his jaw, the way his smile falters ever so slightly when he thinks no one is watching.

He isn't quite what I expected.

"There's something I wanted to ask you," I hear myself say, the words slipping out before I can stop them. My voice is soft, hesitant, and I know I'm treading into vulnerable territory.

Alex sets his spoon down, his attention fully on me. "Go ahead," he says, his tone encouraging but patient.

I take a breath, steeling myself. "I have a brother, Donald. He's been through a lot and... he hasn't really found his footing yet. I was wondering if you might know someone in the construction industry who could give him a chance. Maybe as a trainee, or even just a starting role."

The words feel heavy in my mouth, a mix of pride and vulnerability that's hard to reconcile. Asking for help doesn't come easily to me, especially when it comes to my family.

Alex's expression softens, his brows drawing together in quiet concern. "If he's open to it, I'd be happy to help," he says without hesitation. "I can reach out to some people or even bring him onto one of my projects. We'll make something work."

The relief that washes over me is almost overwhelming. "Thank you," I say, my voice barely above a whisper. "That would mean so much to him. To me."

He smiles, and there's something about it—something genuine and unguarded—that makes the space between us feel just a little smaller. "It's clear how much he matters to you. Don't worry, Ruby. I'll make sure he gets a fair shot."

The vulnerability of the moment settles between us, fragile but unspoken. I don't know if I'll ever fully trust him, not yet, but this... this feels like a start.

We finish our ice cream in comfortable silence, the kind that doesn't demand filling. When Alex offers to drive me home, I hesitate for only a second before accepting.

The car ride is quiet, the hum of the engine soothing. As he pulls up in front of my building, I glance at him, his profile softened in the glow of the streetlights.

"Thank you," I say again, and this time, it's not just for Donald.

Alex nods, his gaze steady but kind. "Anytime, Ruby."

As I step out of the car, I feel lighter than I have in days, though a small part of me remains wary. He's Alex Sterling, after all. But maybe—just maybe—I'm starting to believe that I don't need to keep him at arm's length forever.