A soft smile played at her lips. It’s not a billion-dollar empire, but it’s a life with meaning. It sounds peaceful, Blake said, surprised by the wistfulness in his own voice. Sometimes. Other times it’s chaotic and frustrating and overwhelming. Her green eyes fixed on his, but it’s real. Every bit of it. When was the last time something felt real to you, Blake? The question hit him like a physical blow.

When indeed? His world was curated and controlled. Luxury homes he barely spent time in, relationships negotiated like business deals, even his charitable giving managed by a team to maximize PR value. This does, he admitted quietly. Sitting here with you, being seen as the person I was before all this, it feels real. Something shifted in Amelia’s expression.

A softening, a glimpse of the young woman who had once believed in him completely. Tell me something true, she said. Something not in the official Blake Morrison narrative. Blake found himself speaking before he could think better of it. I hate most of my life, he confessed. The endless meetings, the political maneuvering, the constant performance of being Blake Morrison, tech visionary.

He took a generous sip of his scotch. The only time I feel alive is when I’m actually working on the technology, which I barely get to do anymore. Then why continue? Momentum, expectation, fear of what’s on the other side. He shrugged. The company employs thousands of people. Their livelihoods depend on me maintaining the facade.

That’s quite a burden to carry, Amelia said without judgement. What about you? Blake asked. Tell me something true about Amelia Bryant. She smiled, a hint of mischief in her eyes. I kept that green scarf you mentioned. It’s frayed and faded, but I couldn’t bear to part with it. Sentimental value. It was the first gift anyone had given me that showed they were really paying attention. Her voice softened.

You noticed I was always cold in that coffee shop, even when it was warm outside. You saved up tips for 3 weeks to buy it from that boutique on Newbury Street. Blake remembered now. The way her face had lit up when he presented her with the carefully wrapped package, how she’d worn it every day afterward despite it being spring.

He’d forgotten he was capable of such thoughtful gestures. Whatever happened to the poetry? He asked. You were always writing. A shadow crossed her face. I still write. I’ve published two collections with a small press. Under Amanda Taylor or Amelia Bryant? AJ Bryant, she said. They didn’t exactly make the New York Times best seller list, but they exist in the world.

I’d like to read them, Blake said, surprising himself with his sincerity. Would you? She looked skeptical. They’re rather critical of capitalist excess and the hollowness of material success. Blake laughed, the sound startling in its genuineness. So, not flattering to people like me. Not particularly, she admitted with a smile.

Though there might be a few poems inspired by a certain ambitious coffee shop barista who broke my heart. Now I definitely need to read them. Blake’s phone vibrated in his pocket. He ignored it. Another first for the evening. As the night deepened, they moved from cautious reminiscence to more personal territory. Amelia told him about her brief failed marriage to a fellow teacher, her struggle with her mother’s long illness, her upcoming sabbatical to write her third collection.

Blake shared his growing disillusionment with the corporate world he’d fought so hard to conquer, his regrets about his distant relationship with his parents before they died, his increasing desire to return to the hands-on innovation that had first driven him. You could step back, you know, Amelia suggested.

You’ve built an incredible team. Let them handle the day-to-day while you focus on the work that fulfills you. It’s not that simple, Blake began, then stopped himself. Actually, maybe it is that simple and I’ve just been too afraid to consider it. What are you afraid of? Irrelevance, he admitted. Without Blake Morrison, billionaire CEO, who am I? That’s the question, isn’t it? Amelia said gently.

Maybe it’s time to find out. They were interrupted by a discreet cough. The maître d’ stood at their table looking apologetic. “I’m terribly sorry to disturb you, Mr. Morrison, but there’s a situation that requires your attention.” He handed Blake a folded note. Blake opened it reluctantly. Inside, in his sister Hannah’s handwriting, “Emergency board call.

Palmer threatening hostile move. Call me now.” Thomas Palmer was his chief competitor and had been circling Morrison Technologies for months looking for an opening. Blake felt the familiar weight of responsibility settle back onto his shoulders. “I need to take this,” he said to Amelia, genuine regret in his voice.

“It’s an emergency,” she finished for him, her smile tinged with sadness. “Some things never change.” The comment stung, but Blake couldn’t deny its accuracy. “I’m sorry. Can I have my driver take you home?” “I can manage,” she said, gathering her purse. “It’s been an illuminating evening, Blake. Thank you for the closure.

” Something in her tone, finality, made Blake reach for her hand. “Don’t disappear, please. I’d like to see you again.” Amelia looked at their joined hands, then up at his face. “Why?” “Because for the first time in years, I remembered who I wanted to be before I became who I am,” he said simply.

“Because you’re the only person in my life who sees both versions of me and isn’t impressed by the wrong one.” She seemed to struggle with herself before finally saying, “I’m leaving for Italy on Friday. A writing retreat in Tuscany for my sabbatical. I’ll be gone for 3 months.” “Friday?” Blake repeated, his mind already calculating.

👉 [Tap here for Next Part] 👈