Second Chances and Soft Starts

She said yes.

It still amazed me.

I'd read her message three times before I believed it was real. Friday. Seven. No conditions, no sarcastic add-ons, just an acceptance wrapped in quiet permission.

And after four days of carefully worded cards, handpicked bouquets, and not-so-subtle hints, she'd finally agreed. It felt like winning a war I wasn't sure I had the right to fight. But here I was, standing in the penthouse's shared living room, adjusting the collar of my shirt while Oliver waited in the hallway, pretending not to glance at his watch.

At 6:59 p.m., the door to Celine's room opened, and there she was.

Celine Cater.

Her navy-blue dress hugged her like it had been tailored to the rhythm of her walk. Simple. Elegant. Not a single thread out of place. She'd pulled her hair back, but a few strands curled rebelliously at her temples. And her eyes—serious, sharp, assessing—met mine with just the faintest shimmer of amusement.

"Evening," I said.

She arched an eyebrow. "Still going old-school chivalry on me?"

"Every chance I get."

I offered her my arm as we stepped out of the penthouse and into the private elevator.

Oliver drove, and we sat in silence for the first few blocks. Not uncomfortable, just… patient.

"I thought about not saying yes," she said finally.

"I figured."

"But the flowers were... beautiful."

I glanced at her. "You liked them?"

She gave a small nod, looking out the window. "I don't usually get flowers. I've never really dated. I was always busy. Too focused."

"That's fair," I replied, carefully. "You're not the only one who built walls around their calendar."

She turned to me, eyes curious. "You've dated, though."

I shrugged. "Sure. But I've never sent someone a bouquet for four straight days."

That earned a real smile.

"Where are we going?" she asked, changing the subject.

"It's a surprise. But no press, no formal wear, and definitely no company logos."

"Hmm. So you do know how to relax."

"Debatable."

The car pulled into a quiet neighborhood on the edge of Velmora, far from the glittering downtown towers. We stopped outside a charming little restaurant tucked between an art gallery and a closed flower shop. The place was dimly lit, rustic, warm.

Inside, the hostess greeted us with a nod and led us to a table in the back, private and cozy. Candles flickered between us.

"You made a reservation?" she asked.

"I own part of it," I said casually. "Less chance of being followed."

She blinked. "Smart."

Dinner began with simple dishes—roasted vegetables, artisan bread, handmade pasta. She asked questions about the menu, and I let her lead the conversation. Halfway through the meal, something shifted.

She laughed.

Not a small chuckle, but a real laugh—light, unfiltered, surprised. I didn't even remember what I said, only that I wanted to make her do it again.

"You're not as irritating as you were a month ago," she said.

"Progress."

We talked about our schools—hers in London, mine in Connecticut. About our parents, cautiously. About work, less so. She told me about a project she'd launched before the merger, one she was proud of.

Her eyes lit up when she spoke about her team. The fire in her was magnetic.

She loved what she did.

And damn, it made me admire her even more.

"I used to think people like us didn't get soft things," she said, tracing the edge of her wine glass.

I leaned forward. "Like flowers?"

"Like evenings that don't have boardroom agendas."

I considered that. "Maybe we make the soft things, one choice at a time."

She met my gaze, serious again. "Are you really okay with this? Us… shifting?"

"Yes," I answered truthfully. "Because for the first time, I want something that's not a deal. Not a merger. Just real."

She didn't reply, but I could feel the walls drop another inch.

As we left the restaurant and walked beneath the string lights overhead, she looked at me and said, "Next time, I choose the place."

"There's going to be a next time?"

Her smile was sly. "Don't push it, Aldridge."

But she didn't pull away when I offered my arm.

And that was all the confirmation I needed.

When we got back to the penthouse, she stepped out of the elevator first.

"I had a good time," she said softly.

"Me too."

We paused in the hallway—two people in a shared space that still felt divided. She didn't say goodnight, but she didn't have to. Her slight nod and quiet gaze were enough.

She turned, disappeared into her room, and closed the door behind her with a soft click.

I stood there for a moment longer before walking into my own room, my chest oddly full.

We were still strangers in some ways. Still distant. Still figuring it out.

But we were also learning to walk toward each other.

And tonight, that felt like more than enough.