Stirring Waters

I didn't expect to laugh again so soon.

Not in this marriage. Not in this polished, press-approved contract we were both pretending to be happy in. But somehow, Blake had pulled it out of me. Again.

The meeting had gone better than expected. The campaign concepts had potential, but it wasn't just that. It was the way he'd leaned back in his chair with that smug grin when I challenged the direction. The way he threw his ridiculous apron comment like a lobbed tennis ball, expecting me to volley back.

And I had. Without even thinking.

Something was shifting.

I had a spring in my step as I returned to the penthouse. Not a skip. Not a romantic flutter. Just... less heaviness. My heels echoed through the marble floors as I walked into the kitchen and saw the note I'd left on the fridge still there.

He hadn't replied in writing. But I spotted the spoon rest scrubbed clean, his whiskey glass rinsed and turned upside down. Blake Aldridge, cleaning after himself. Miracles did exist.

Sarah called just as I was kicking off my shoes.

"Campaign media slots are locked in," she said before I could say hello. "Also, Aldridge Media emailed about a potential shoot at the lake house. You interested?"

I paused. "Let me think about it."

"Think fast. We're booked solid."

"I'll confirm by morning."

She hung up, and I padded barefoot into the living room. The city glittered outside the window, skyscrapers casting mirrored lights on Velmora's skyline. For the first time, I noticed how beautiful it looked.

I made tea.

I never made tea.

Then again, I wasn't the same woman who had screamed at her father across the study over an arranged marriage. I still stood by my argument, still believed in my capability. But maybe, just maybe, there was more to this situation than I originally let myself see.

I sat cross-legged on the couch with my tablet, flipping through campaign drafts. Halfway through a shot list, I found a candid photo of Blake and me standing beside each other during the engagement press conference. My expression was neutral; his looked suspiciously close to... pleased?

I zoomed in.

Yep. That smug corner-of-his-mouth smirk again.

"You are annoyingly photogenic," I muttered.

The door opened quietly. I didn't have to look to know who it was.

"Making executive decisions on the couch again?" Blake's voice teased, amused.

I didn't look up. "Better than corporate espionage in the boardroom."

He walked in, set something on the table—a bag with a bakery label I recognized.

"You brought pastries?" I asked.

"Ceasefire. Thought you'd earned one."

I tilted my head. "From the café near Lennox Square?"

He nodded.

I took one and bit into it. Cinnamon and almond.

Okay, maybe the man did pay attention.

He sat down, a bit too close on the couch. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to feel the warmth between us. "So... are you really going to cook next time, or was that a bluff?"

I raised a brow. "You doubting my skills?"

"I'm doubting your survival instincts."

"Wow. So much faith."

He sipped his coffee and smirked. "You're full of surprises lately."

I shrugged. "I guess when you stop trying to win every fight, you find time to live a little."

There was silence. Not awkward. Just thoughtful.

Then, softly, he asked, "Was it always this hard for you to trust people?"

My fingers froze around the pastry.

Yes.

But I didn't say that. Instead, I said, "It's not about trust. It's about control. I've always needed to steer the ship myself. If I don't, someone else will crash it."

He didn't flinch. Didn't mock. Just nodded.

"I get that."

I looked at him then. And saw it—the understanding, the shared burden. For all our differences, we were strangely alike in the ways that mattered.

"Maybe we'll never be that perfect couple they all want us to be," I said. "But if we can stop making each other miserable... maybe that's enough to start with."

"Maybe it is."

His voice was quieter now. Less sure. A far cry from the arrogant tycoon I'd hated on sight.

We didn't toast. We didn't hug. But in that living room, over flaky pastry and half-sipped coffee, I felt the shift again.

Not a fall.

Not even a stumble.

But a step.

Toward something real.