The Ghost of Startups Past

"We're going to the diner," Sion said, already grabbing his charcoal blazer. "If we send a decoy, it looks like we’re hiding. If we show up, it looks like a romantic 'rescue' from the paparazzi."

"In this dress?" Lilia gestured to the emerald silk. "I’ll look like a lost mermaid in a sea of coffee grounds."

"Exactly," Sion countered, ushering her toward his private express elevator. "Contrast is the soul of a good headline."

The drive to the diner felt like a mission to a war zone. As they turned the corner, the neon "FRANKIE’S" sign flickered under the weight of three satellite vans and a dozen reporters. Brenda, the veteran waitress who had worked there since Lilia was in diapers, was currently holding a carafe of hot coffee like a weapon, shouting at a cameraman to "get off the fresh-mopped linoleum."

Sion’s town car glided to the curb. The moment the door opened, the flashbulbs became a strobe light.

"Lilia! Is it true he’s buying the block for you?"

"Sion! Is this a PR stunt to distract from the merger?"

Sion didn't answer. He stepped out, reached back, and lifted Lilia out of the car as if she were made of glass. He didn't let her feet hit the pavement until they were at the door. Inside, the diner smelled of burnt toast and desperation.

"Brenda, put the pot down!" Lilia shouted over the din.

Brenda squinted through the steam. "Lilia? Is that you under all that green shiny stuff? And who’s the suit? He looks like the guy who just tried to sue me for 'emotional distress' because I forgot his sourdough."

"This is my fiancé, Sion," Lilia said, the lie tasting like copper in her mouth.

Sion stepped forward, extending a hand to Brenda. "I’m the man who’s going to ensure this diner stays exactly where it is for the next fifty years. And I believe I owe you a very large tip for looking after Lilia while I was... away on business."

He slid a folded check onto the counter. Brenda peeked at the amount, and her eyes nearly popped out of her head. She tucked it into her apron immediately. "Business, huh? Well, he’s better looking than the last guy you dated, the one who tried to pay for his omelet with a gift card to a pet store."

The reporters were pressing their faces against the glass windows. Sion looked around the humble diner, his gaze landing on the "Mustard King" poster Lilia had hidden behind the counter earlier. He actually smirked.

"Lilia," he said, turning to her, his voice low enough that only she could hear. "If we’re going to kill the rumors, we need to give them a finale. Something they can’t argue with."

"What are you doing?" she whispered, her heart doing that strange flip again.

He didn't answer with words. He reached out, cupped her face, and kissed her. It wasn't a "publicity" kiss—it was deep, lingering, and smelled faintly of expensive mint and something dangerous. For a second, the sound of the rain and the shouting press faded into white noise.

When he pulled back, Lilia was breathless, and the room was silent. Even Brenda had stopped chewing her gum.

"That," Sion said to the cameras through the window, "is our timeline."

But as they turned to leave, a sleek silver car pulled up behind the town car. A man stepped out—younger than Sion, with a smile that didn't reach his eyes.

"Sion! Lilia!" the man called out, holding a microphone. "I’m Julian Vane from Vane Capital. Just wanted to congratulate you. And Lilia... I’d love to hear more about your other business partner. The one who says you still owe him thirty thousand dollars from your 'entrepreneurial startup' last year?"

Lilia froze. The emerald dress suddenly felt like a straightjacket.