The boardroom at Saint Matthew Medical Center was too bright for comfort. Fluorescent light bounced off the glass table, turning every polished surface into a mirror. Estelle sat at one end, hands folded over her notes, trying to ignore the buzz of anticipation running through the room.
At the far end, the chair of the hospital foundation, Dr. Lopez, cleared his throat.
"All right, everyone. Today we're finalizing partners for the new rehabilitation wing. The Masterson Foundation has offered full sponsorship."
A low murmur rippled through the group. Estelle kept her face neutral, though her stomach tightened.
Dr. Lopez smiled toward the door. "And since he insisted on being here in person—Mr. Dranred Masterson."
The door opened. Dranred stepped in, crisp suit, polite smile, the picture of composure. The room shifted; conversations faltered. He nodded to the board members, then to Estelle. "Morning."
She didn't return the smile. "You're punctual."
"I've been told it's polite," he said, taking the seat opposite her.
Dr. Lopez clasped his hands. "Let's get started. Mr. Masterson's proposal is impressive. A sports-based therapy facility, integrated with our existing programs. Nurse Christopher will serve as lead coordinator."
Dranred's eyes flicked toward her. "That's news to me."
"It's news to me too," Estelle said evenly. "I wasn't consulted."
Dr. Lopez chuckled. "You two already work well together, don't you?"
Neither of them laughed.
Dranred leaned back. "If she's leading, I'll trust her call on the details. I just want the project to actually help people."
Estelle met his gaze, her voice calm but sharp. "Helping people usually starts with honesty."
He tilted his head, faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. "You still have a talent for throwing punches without moving."
"Old habits," she said.
Dr. Lopez glanced between them, oblivious to the undercurrent. "Excellent! I'll leave you both to iron out logistics. The two of you together—unstoppable."
When the door closed behind him, the air changed. Red exhaled slowly. "So. We're partners now."
"Professional ones," Estelle said.
He grinned. "That's a start."
"You don't get to call this a start, Mr. Masterson. Also, keep everything professional. I trust you can do that."
He leaned forward, elbows on the table. "You ever stop to think maybe fate's tired of watching us avoid each other?"
She stared him down. "Fate doesn't make deals with people like us."
For a moment, neither spoke. Then he said quietly, "You really don't believe people change, do you?"
Estelle gathered her papers. "People don't change, Mr. Masterson. They just learn to hide what they haven't."
He let her words hang in the air, then smiled—a small, almost sad smile. "Then maybe it's time I stopped hiding."
The meeting ended with polite applause and the shuffle of papers, but the tension between them stayed behind like static.
Estelle packed her folder slowly, waiting for the others to leave before she slipped out. She didn't want another conversation; she wanted distance, something solid between her and the man who kept turning up in the parts of her life she'd managed to rebuild.
But Dranred caught up before she reached the elevator.
"Estelle—"
"Don't," she said, not even turning.
"Come on, I'm just trying to talk."
"That's the problem." She jabbed the elevator button.
He stepped back, hands raised. "Fine. I'll wait till you're done ignoring me."
The elevator dinged open. She stepped in. He followed.
They stood shoulder-to-shoulder in the small mirrored box, the silence sharp enough to cut. The doors slid closed, trapping the weight of everything they hadn't said.
Dranred cleared his throat. "For the record, I didn't know they'd pair us. Dr. Lopez thought it was a great PR story—'the nurse and the athlete who saved the children.' Sounds noble, right?"
She shot him a sidelong look. "You make it sound like a headline you wrote yourself."
He grinned. "I'm not that clever."
"Could've fooled me," she muttered.
The elevator stopped on the ground floor. She stepped out fast, but he kept pace beside her through the lobby and out into the late-day heat. The sky was turning the color of rust, the air thick with exhaust and the smell of rain on concrete.
"Why are you still here, Mr. Masterson?" she asked. "You did your good deed. You gave your donations. You don't owe us anything."
He stopped walking. "That's where you're wrong."
She turned to face him. "You think this project makes up for the past? You think building a rehab wing will wipe ten years of—"
"No." His voice cut in, low but firm. "It doesn't erase anything. But it's something real. Something I can do instead of just feeling sorry every night."
For a moment, neither spoke. The noise of the city filled the space—the distant honk of jeepneys, a vendor calling out, the rhythm of a basketball somewhere beyond the gates.
"You always did know how to give speeches," she said.
"And you always knew how to take the wind out of them." He smiled faintly. "I missed that."
She looked away. "Don't start pretending we're friends."
"Then what are we?"
"Two people who should've stayed on opposite sides of the court."
He laughed softly. "You know what they say about courts, Estelle—someone always crosses the line."
The corner of her mouth almost curved before she stopped it. She stepped back toward her car. "Stay in your lane, Mr. Masterson."
He called after her, "You make that sound like a challenge."
She didn't turn around. "Take it however you want."
The door slammed shut, and the echo followed her all the way down the road.
Dranred stood there, watching the taillights fade. Then he exhaled, ran a hand through his hair, and said under his breath, "Still the best defense I've ever played against."