The office was a sleek, modern space—walls painted in a muted shade of gray, accented with minimalist artwork and a few potted plants that looked like they belonged in a magazine shoot.
The centerpiece was a large, polished mahogany desk, cluttered only with the essentials: a laptop, a few neat stacks of papers, and a fancy pen holder.
Behind the desk sat Mr. Ronson, a man who looked every inch the powerful CEO—sharp, decisive, and just a little bit intimidating.
He was dressed impeccably in a tailored navy blue suit, crisp white shirt, and a silk tie that probably cost more than my monthly allowance.
His hair was perfectly combed back, and his hands were intertwined on top of his laptop as he stared intently at the screen, lost in thought—or maybe plotting how to take over the world, one corporate move at a time.
Suddenly, his secretary, a petite woman with sharp eyes and a no-nonsense attitude, entered the room.
She bowed slightly, as if she was about to deliver some life-altering news. "Sir, you have a meeting with Mr. Quang this evening," she said politely.
Mr. Ronson sighed heavily, running a hand through his hair as if to shake off the weight of the universe.
"Yeah, make sure everything is arranged," he said sharply, like instructing someone to fetch his coffee—quick and to the point. The secretary nodded briskly and exited, leaving him alone with his thoughts.
If I had been standing in front of that man, I swear I would have spat on him just to see if he'd flinch. But, hey, that's another story for another day.
As the secretary left, Mr. Ronson leaned back in his chair, letting out a long, contemplative sigh.
His gaze drifted to a framed picture on his desk—my picture. A soft smile crept across his face as he stared at it.
"Ayana Ronson..." he whispered softly, voice tinged with a mix of longing and regret.
"My daughter… when will I get to see you? When will your mom stop trying to build a wall between us? Maybe I should send her a tape of this—see if she can hear my tears through the office walls."
He paused, gazing out the window at the sprawling cityscape beyond, the skyline glittering like a sea of stars.
His hands crossed over his chest as he watched the hustle and bustle below—probably planning his next big move, or just trying to decide whether to order lunch.
Suddenly, a sharp but oddly cheerful voice broke the silence from behind. "Mr. Ronson, we need to talk..."
He smirked, a glint of mischief and amusement in his eyes.
Oh, I already knew who it was. It was probably the only person brave enough to walk into his office with that tone—and live to tell the tale.
"Ah, perfect timing," Mr. Ronson said with a smirk, turning around. "Come in, Mr. 'We-Need-To-Talk,' or should I call you 'The Bravest'?"
It was my mom.
She pushed open the door with a confident stride, hands crossed over her tailored blazer—let's call it her power suit.
She looked every bit the CEO, her sharp eyes scanning the room like she owned the place. Her black hair cascaded past her shoulders in sleek waves, as if she was hiding secrets in every strand.
She moved further inside, like she was about to take over the entire office—because, honestly, she probably could.
"Or should I even say Mrs. 'We-Need-To-Talk'?" Mr. Ronson said, running a hand through his perfectly styled blonde hair, which looked like he'd just stepped out of a hair commercial.
My mom didn't bother with a greeting.
She simply crossed her arms, a look that said she wasn't here for small talk, and certainly not for a friendly game of chess.
"I don't think I need to talk much. You already know what you did," she said, voice as calm as a ticking bomb.
Mr. Ronson's eyes narrowed slightly, but he kept his cool.
"They haven't been any reply to my letters. This means you never gave her," he said, his tone cold but with that underlying warmth that only a father could do when he's trying not to show how much it hurts.
My mom rolled her eyes. "Yeah, I don't want her to get involved with a cheater..." she said, voice dripping with disdain.
Ronson smirked, leaning back with that signature smirk of his.
"Cheater? You've been calling me that for a while now. Don't you think you should stop? I want to see my daughter," he said, locking eyes with her, challenging her to deny it.
She paused, her gaze flickering with something unreadable. "You never wanted to see Jake, did you? Is it because he's your stepson?" she shot back.
Ronson shook his head slowly, sighing like he was tired of the same old game. "We're doing this again?," he muttered.
My mom sighed dramatically, as if she'd just finished a marathon of corporate warfare.
"Anyway, the competition's still on... my company will beat yours. Watch out," she declared boldly, turning to walk away.
But then she stopped, her heels clicking softly against the office floor. She looked back over her shoulder with a sly smile.
"See you at the meeting, Mr. Ronson."
And with that, she gracefully exited, leaving a trail of confidence and a little bit of chaos behind her.
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I sighed so hard I thought I'd create a small tornado. Hands folded on my chest, I stared down at my outfit—just a plain white t-shirt, some slightly faded jeans, and a light jacket.
Nothing daring, nothing flashy. I wasn't trying to start a fashion revolution; I just wanted to blend in and maybe—just maybe—grab a quiet moment at the library without being chased by my personal squad of overgrown babysitters.
I turned around, and, yep. There they were—the R4. Apparently, they had a tracking device planted on me or maybe just a psychic connection that told them I was about to breathe.
Whatever it was, they were following me like a pack of suspicious dogs on a sniff mission. Even to the library.
Because apparently, I wasn't allowed to be alone, not even with a nose full of dust and the promise of peace.
"Do you guys have to follow me even to the library?" I asked, voice dry, as I sighed again, wishing I could just disappear behind a bookshelf.
Jake didn't respond. He just kept walking, expression blank, like a robot that had been programmed to follow orders but forgot the part where it was supposed to talk.
Ethan threw a quick glance my way, then slid his hand into his pocket and kept walking like he was on a secret mission only he knew about. Fantastic. I was officially a prisoner of the Most Officially Over-Prepared Squad.
Then I turned to Liam. He was grinning so wide I was half expecting him to pull a rabbit out of his pocket.
He reached out and started pinching my cheeks like I was a cute puppy, not a girl trying to get to the library before they set up camp there too.
"Yeah, Ayana," he said, eyes twinkling mischievously, "you're not safe anymore. Remember the goons?" He made it sound like some epic villain squad from a superhero comic.
I tried to sweep his hand off my face, but Mark, who was watching the whole thing with that 'I've seen enough reality TV' look, gently fixed his glasses and pulled Liam's hand away.
Mark then took my hand softly, like he was about to offer me a lifetime supply of cookies, and said,
"Do you want to grab some drinks before we head to the library? I mean, I'm just saying—you're pretty good at pretending you're a bookworm. Maybe I should start a book club. Or a secret society. Or… both."
I looked down, cheeks burning, and mumbled, "Yeah, let's grab some drinks."
Liam's face lit up like a kid who just saw his favorite superhero. "Me too! I'll go with you," he said, practically bouncing.
Meanwhile, Jake shot me a smirk. "It's weird, you guys, doing all this for that ugly goat, he is rich enough" he said, lips curling into a teasing smirk.
"Hey!" Liam shot back, trying to look offended but failing miserably. '' I'm not that Ugly''
Ethan, the silent but deadly type, simply nodded and said,
"I'm going too," in that monotone voice that made it sound like he was already bored of the conversation.
Suddenly, someone cleared their throat behind us—loud enough to make everyone jump.
It was Nena.
I totally forgot she was even here because of the chaos.
Classic me.
She shoved Ethan aside with surprising strength, who looked momentarily shocked but quickly regained his poker face.
She grabbed my hand and yanked me away from Mark's grip like she was pulling me out of a hostage situation.
"Let's go to the library," she said softly but with a fierce edge, eyes glowing with determination. "I'm here with you. You don't need them."
Liam, still holding my hand, tightened his grip and said,
"Hold on, Mrs. Nosy Pants. We will protect her. What can you do? Punch me in the nose? Go ahead—try."
Nena shot him a sly grin. "I can punch your nose off," she shot back.
Liam, not one to back down, let go of my hand and hurried behind Jake, who was trying to push him away but was about as successful as trying to shove a mountain with a toothpick.
"Let's go, Ayana," Nena said, pulling me along. "I'll buy you that drink. And hey—if you don't have a man, I'll be one for you." She winked.
I giggled, feeling both amused and oddly reassured. "Let's go then," I said, letting her lead me away.
As we disappeared into the distance, Mark watched us go, eyes wide with shock and confusion—probably wondering what kind of crazy person he'd just stumbled upon.
Liam still looked amused, and Ethan frowned as if he'd just smelled something bad. Jake was smiling softly, probably thinking about the chaos we'd just left behind.
And I couldn't help but think… maybe I didn't really need the protection of the Over-Prepared Squad.
Maybe, just maybe, I was doing better with Nena.