(Yvette POV)
Morning light spills across my desk in thin, golden lines, catching on the edges of folders and the polished surface of my laptop. The office slls faintly of coffee and paper—an oddly comforting scent that has slowly beco familiar over the past weeks.
I hadn’t expected that.
When I first stepped into this building, everything felt too big. Too heavy. Too serious for soone like , who had once asured her world in teaspoons and oven tirs, in the delicate balance between sugar and butter. Back then, contracts and boardrooms were foreign languages.
Now, they are... manageable.
I skim through a report, pen tapping softly against the desk as I underline figures and jot down notes in the margins. My handwriting is still slightly ssy—old habits die hard—but my thoughts are clearer now. I know what I’m looking at. I know what questions to ask.
"Good morning, Ms. Hamilton," an assistant greets as she steps in briefly to hand another file.
"Good morning," I reply with a small smile, taking the folder. "Thank you."
She hesitates, then smiles back before leaving. Monts like that still surprise —how people look at now with a mix of respect and expectation. Not pity. Not dismissal.
Expectation.
I straighten the stack of docunts and glance at the clock. etings later. Emails to answer now. I breathe in slowly and let myself settle into the rhythm of the day.
I’m still new to this. Still learning where everything fits. But I’m no longer drowning.
I’m floating.
As I pause between emails, my thoughts drift—not backward, but forward.
The one-year clause.
My adoptive father’s final insistence that Joseph and I work together before any decision is made permanent. At first, it felt like a chain—another delay, another complication tying to a life I never asked for.
Now, it feels more like a bridge.
A temporary one.
I have never wanted the Hamilton Hotels Group. Not truly. The power, the prestige, the endless obligations—they were never my dream. I respect what this company represents. I am grateful for what it has given .
But gratitude is not the sa as ownership.
When the year ends, I will step aside.
I will give Joseph the CEO position, cleanly and without resentnt. It was always ant to be his. He understands this world in a way I never will. And I am at peace with that.
My future lies elsewhere.
Paris.
The thought warms sothing deep in my chest. Culinary school. Long days in kitchens filled with heat and chaos. Learning from masters who speak in flavors and techniques instead of balance sheets and quarterly reports.
And after that, opening a restaurant of my own. With the money my parents had left for , I can start my own business. That was really my dream.
This was the plan I made when I woke up with a second chance.
This was the life I chose.
And I still choose it now.
My gaze drifts to the window, where the city stretches endlessly below. Sowhere between the glass and the skyline, a mory surfaces unbidden.
The hotel room.
The quiet after the storm. Joseph’s voice—unsteady, raw. The way his hand trembled in mine. The kiss we shared, soft and hesitant, carrying more aning than any grand declaration ever could.
It wasn’t passion.
It wasn’t desperation.
It was a promise.
A promise to do better. To be honest. To stop running—from the past, from each other, from ourselves.
I don’t know where that promise will lead.
I don’t know if Joseph will be part of the future I’m building. I don’t know if our paths will rge again or diverge gently over ti.
But I do know this—I am not closing my doors.
Not to him.
Not to anyone.
Not to myself.
I turn back to my desk, fingers hovering over the keyboard as a quiet resolve settles in my chest. Whatever cos next, I will face it standing. Not clinging. Not hiding.
Just moving forward.
One deliberate step at a ti.
I don’t realize how long I’ve been staring at the screen until a soft knock breaks the silence.
"Co in," I say automatically, fingers still hovering over the keyboard.
The door opens, and Brent steps inside.
He doesn’t announce himself the way everyone else does—no stiff posture, no rehearsed tone. He simply leans against the doorfra for a mont, eyes flicking to the clock on my wall and then back to .
"Have you eaten?" he asks.
The question catches off guard. I blink. "Eaten?"
He raises a brow, amused. "That usually ans no."
I glance at the ti and feel a faint jolt of surprise. It’s already past noon. "I was going to," I say, then wince. "Eventually. I just didn’t notice the ti."
Brent hums thoughtfully and walks closer, glancing at the papers scattered across my desk. "You’ve been saying ’eventually’ since nine this morning."
I open my mouth to argue, then close it again. He’s not wrong.
Before I can protest, he reaches out and—very deliberately—closes my laptop.
"Brent," I start, startled.
He smiles, slow and unhurried, the kind of smile that doesn’t rush you but also doesn’t invite argunt. "Lunch," he says simply. "With ."
For a second, I just stare at him.
I’m not sure what I expected from Brent Dawson when we first t—stern legal counsel, perhaps, or a distant guardian figure assigned by my adoptive father. What I didn’t expect was this easy confidence, this quiet attentiveness that notices things before they beco problems.
"I—" I hesitate.
He tilts his head slightly. "You don’t need permission. But you do need food."
Sothing about the way he says it makes my chest loosen. I laugh softly, the sound surprising even .
"Alright," I say. "You win."
As I stand, I catch my reflection faintly in the glass cabinet behind my desk—and realize, a little belatedly, that Brent is... really nice looking. Not in an overwhelming way. Just—put together. Calm. Steady.
Warm.
Heat creeps up my cheeks, and I’m grateful he’s already turned away to give space.
I grab my bag and phone as we head toward the door. Just as my hand closes around the handle, my phone vibrates.
A ssage.
Joseph:
Are you free for lunch?
My heart stutters, just a little.
The timing makes smile despite myself. I glance up at Brent, who’s waiting patiently, hands tucked into his pockets, eyes focused on sothing across the hall.
I type quickly.
:
I’m not free for lunch today. But I can make ti for dinner.
There’s a pause. Barely a second.
Then my phone vibrates again.
Joseph:
Then it’s a date.
I stare at the screen, warmth blooming in my chest. It’s not flashy. Not dramatic.
Just... sure.
I tuck my phone away, a small smile lingering on my lips as I turn back to Brent. "Sorry about that."
"No need," he says easily. "Ready?"
I nod. "Ready."
The hallways feel different when I’m not rushing through them with an agenda in mind.
Brent and I walk side by side, our steps unhurried. He asks about my morning—really asks, listening without interrupting as I talk about reports and etings and the small victories of understanding sothing new.
"And how are you finding it?" he asks. "All of this."
I consider the question. "It’s... challenging," I admit. "But not in a bad way. I’m learning a lot about myself."
He smiles. "That’s usually how it starts."
I laugh softly, gesturing as I explain an idea that’s been forming in my mind—a potential revamp for one of the smaller hotel cafés, sothing more locally inspired, more personal.
Brent listens intently, eyes brightening. "You should propose that," he says. "You have a good instinct for it."
His encouragent feels genuine, and I find myself speaking more freely, more animatedly than I have in days. My hands move as I talk, my thoughts flowing without the careful restraint I often keep in the office.
I feel... alive.
Unburdened.
We round a corner near the elevators.
I don’t see Joseph at first.
But then I feel it—that subtle shift in the air, the awareness that soone familiar is nearby. I glance up, and our eyes et across the hallway.
He stands partially obscured by a pillar, phone in hand, expression unreadable.
For a heartbeat, the world seems to pause.
I don’t stop walking. I don’t wave or call out. I simply et his gaze, offering a small, calm smile before turning back to Brent as he continues speaking.
Out of the corner of my eye, I can feel Joseph watching.
Watching the way I laugh at sothing Brent says.
Watching the ease in my movents.
Watching a version of that isn’t waiting.
As we disappear down the hall, I feel sothing settle quietly inside my chest—not guilt, not defiance.
Just certainty.
I am moving forward.
And this ti, the door behind remains open—not because I’m undecided, but because I finally understand that my future doesn’t need to be narrowed to a single path.
It can be wide.
It can be chosen.
And it can begin, right here, with my next step.
Reviews
All reviews (0)