The rain had stopped by morning, but the city still smelled like it had something to say.
I woke before the alarm as usual. The sky outside was still navy, not quite morning but no longer night. I sat at the edge of my bed for a long time, staring at nothing. I'd had that dream again-the one where I was still young, still powerless, still watching my mother cry in the kitchen with her back turned to me. The one where I swore I would never live like her. Never beg. Never depend. Never be hurt like that. I stood, pulled on my running clothes, and left the building without breakfast. The gym opened at 5:30. I liked to be there by 5:15. Routine was everything. It kept me sane. It kept me cold. It kept me safe.
The treadmill was the only thing I could race and win against every day. The machine didn't talk back. It didn't cheat, didn't pretend. I set the speed high and let the pounding silence everything else. His voice echoed somewhere beneath the sweat and effort.
"Maybe I'm not afraid of regret." He was wrong. Regret was the one thing I couldn't afford.
Back in my apartment, I took a quick shower and got dressed for the day. Black suit, crisp collar. Minimal makeup, red lipstick. Hair tied back. All sharp edges, all business. That's what people expected when they looked at me. Control. But under that, there's something no one sees. A photo, tucked in the back of my closet. Folded, edges worn. A girl with dirt on her knees and stars in her eyes, holding the hand of a woman with a tired smile. My mother. I stared at it for a long time before closing the door. When I started my company at twenty-six, people laughed. "Another young woman with ambition," they said. "She'll burn out. She'll quit. She'll find someone to marry and give up the fight." But I didn't. Because I had a goal. And it wasn't about money or even power. It was freedom. My mother worked three jobs and still had nothing to her name. Men took what they wanted from her-time, energy, pride. She gave everything and got nothing back. I watched her wear her spirit thin until there was nothing left but bones and obligation. She wanted me to be soft. To marry rich. To be "safe." But I wanted to own safety. I wanted to build a life no one could threaten or take from me. I wanted a world where I was the storm, not the shelter from it. And slowly, painfully, I built it. Now I have my own nameplate on a twenty-seventh-floor door. I'm invited to speak on stages, interviewed by famous magazines, called "one of the top female leaders under thirty-five." But what they don't see, what no one sees, is that I did it to survive. It wasn't for the applause. It was for the silence. The silence of no one being able to hurt me again.
At the office, Anna handed me a schedule packed from dawn till dusk.
Strategy review. Client onboarding. Internal finance audit. My comfort zone. Until 2:00 PM.
"Just a heads-up," Anna said, "you're scheduled to meet with the design firm upstairs about the upcoming presentation refresh."
I looked up. "What?"
"They're doing the visuals for the investor summit next quarter. It's just a quick meet-and-align. They're sending someone down to present the concept. Said it would only take fifteen minutes."
My stomach sank before I even asked. "Who's presenting?"
Anna checked her tablet. "Skillar Lennox."
I stared at her for a long moment. "You want me to cancel?"
I shook my head slowly. "No. Leave it."
At 2:04, he walked in. Same jacket. New shirt. No coffee this time. A small USB drive in hand, a notebook tucked under his arm.
"Hi," he said with that ridiculous calm. I nodded.
"You're late."
"Four minutes. I brought a concept strong enough to earn a pardon." He plugged in the USB without waiting for an invitation, his movements confident but not arrogant.
The screen lit up. He stepped back, hands in his pockets. The presentation was brilliant. Minimalist. Strategic. Clean. The visuals reinforced the language of power, exactly what I wanted. Not flashy. Not gimmicky. Smart. Professional.
"I know you're not interested in fluff," he said, reading me like a damn book. "So I cut anything that smelled like ego."
I hated that I was impressed. I hated that he knew I would be. When the screen went dark, he turned to me. "Any feedback?"
I stood slowly. I walked to the window. He waited in silence. After a moment, I said, "It's good. Better than I expected."
"No regrets showing up?"
I turned. There was a challenge in his eyes, but not a cruel one. Like he wanted to see what I'd do when the script changed.
"I don't have time for regrets."
"Then we have something in common."
I narrowed my eyes. "Do we?"
"You act like you don't care, Oriana. But you do." His voice dropped, just a little. "And you're tired of hiding it."
I could've laughed. I could've thrown him out of the office. I could've reminded him I was his client, not his confidant. But I didn't. I just stood there. Still. Quiet. Because somehow, he saw me. Not the mask. Not the machine. Me. And I didn't know if I hated him for it or needed him to keep looking.
He left with a nod and no further comment. The office felt colder after he was gone. Anna came in a minute later, completely unaware of the way my world had just tilted.
"The A country client wants a decision by the end of the day," she said.
"Send them the contract," I replied, voice flat, body still.
"Everything alright?"
I nodded. "Perfect." But perfection was starting to feel like a cage. That evening, I didn't go straight home. I drove through the city without direction, letting the streets guide me. The lights blurred past. Horns. People. Life. I thought of the photo in my closet. Of the girl I used to be. Of the woman I had become. And of the stranger I couldn't seem to stop noticing. Not because I needed him. But because he reminded me I was still alive.
I parked near the waterfront. The river was quiet at this hour. The kind of stillness only cities allow after the crowd dissolves into neon and memory. I stepped out of the car and walked toward the railing. The wind whipped against my face. My coat wasn't warm enough, but I didn't care. I stared at the black water.
Reflections of office buildings shimmered across its surface-tall, bright, beautiful lies. So many of us build lives like those reflections: impressive from a distance, broken if you try to touch them.
Mine looked perfect too. To the world, I was a success story. The girl who beat the odds. The woman who climbed from nothing and built an empire without help, without apology, without a man. They didn't know the nights I stayed awake, terrified of slipping. Of failing. Of becoming her, my mother. They didn't see the months I lived off black coffee and ambition. They didn't know how much it cost to be unshakable. I clenched the cold metal rail tighter. I hadn't cried in over five years. Not when I lost clients. Not when I lost people. But now, as the wind howled through the gaps in my armor, I felt something shift. A crack forming. Small, but real. And it scared me more than anything ever had. Because cracks let light in. And I didn't know if I was ready to see what the light might show.
My phone buzzed in my coat pocket. A notification.
New email: "About the presentation Skillar Lennox"
I stared at it for a long time before locking the screen. I didn't open it. Not yet. Instead, I looked out over the water one last time, whispered to the dark: "Not now. I still have a promise to keep."
Then I turned and walked away. Back to my car. Back to my life. Back to the silence I chose. But for the first time in years, silence wasn't enough.