Chapter 5

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Chapter Five: The Calm, the Crush, and the CEO in a Wheelchair

I was going to die.

Not dramatically. Just... quietly combust from sheer secondhand embarrassment while sitting in a too-fancy café waiting for Ethan Quan, real-life CEO and fictional heartbreak machine, to show up for coffee.

With me.

What was I thinking? No, seriously. What kind of deranged logic led me to believe I could sit across from the man I used to sob over in my dorm room and not lose every single brain cell?

“Hi, it’s Lyra Carrington,” I had texted, like a normal person. “I know this is unexpected—hope I’m not intruding. I just wanted to say I’ve been thinking about something you said at the gala. Would love to talk more, if you’re open to it.”

Why. Did. I. Do. That.

The door opened.

I didn’t have to look to know it was him. The whole place shifted. Not in a loud way—just a subtle drop in volume, a stillness in the air, like people were suddenly more aware of themselves.

Then I looked up.

And yeah, there he was.

Ethan Quan.

He moved through the café with that same unbothered ease I remembered from the gala—his wheelchair gliding smoothly, his posture perfect, expression unreadable. Hair slicked back, suit immaculate, like he belonged in a fashion campaign titled “Wealth, With Silence.”

And he was—no exaggeration—a Greek god in a charcoal suit.

My brain short-circuited.

I stood too fast, nearly knocking over my chair. “Hi,” I said, too loudly.

His eyes met mine—dark, calm, sharp in a way that made you feel seen down to the bone.

He nodded once.

I sat before I could make more of a spectacle.

He wheeled into place across from me without a sound, his hands steady on the rims. The table felt suddenly too small. Or maybe I just felt too exposed.

He didn’t speak right away. Just waited. Observing. Not impatient, not expectant. Just... present.

So, okay. I was starting.

“I wanted to follow up on what you said at the gala,” I said. “About soft blind spots in investment strategies.”

He didn’t nod. Didn’t prompt. Just... listened.

That’s the thing about Ethan. Silence isn’t awkward with him. It’s intentional. Like he’s giving you space to either say something real—or waste his time.

“I’ve been watching something,” I went on, a little steadier now. “There’s a pattern in the trade reports—licensing freezes, stalled customs clearance, small regional caps on imports. It’s quiet now, but it feels like buildup.”

Still quiet. But his eyes sharpened.

Encouraging.

“I think new tariffs are coming,” I said. “Soon. And when they do, companies with heavy luxury import exposure—like Carrington—are going to take a hit. A big one. But if someone acts early, there’s room to hedge. Shift strategy. Maybe even get ahead.”

Another pause.

Then, finally—his voice.

“Why tell me?”

Not suspicious. Just... curious. Controlled.

“I figured you’d care,” I said. “And that you’d actually see it.”

He looked at me for a moment. Not blinking. Not moving.

Then: “Carrington won’t listen.”

“Trust me,” I said, “I know.”

Still, no emotion. But I felt it—that quiet understanding beneath his silence. The mutual recognition of being background noise in rooms built to ignore you.

I reached into my bag and pulled out the slim folder I’d prepped. Nothing too official—just a few annotated graphs and trade summaries. Bare bones. Enough to show I wasn’t bluffing.

“I put this together,” I said, sliding it across. “I don’t have access to the high-level stuff, obviously, but there’s enough here to make the case.”

He glanced at it but didn’t open it yet.

Then: “This is yours?”

I nodded. “Every word.”

Silence again.

Then, softly: “You speak differently now.”

My throat caught.

He remembered.

“I’ve been... rethinking a lot of things,” I said, trying not to crumble under the weight of it. “Who I am. What I want to be. I guess that’s part of why I reached out.”

He didn’t respond. But he didn’t need to. His presence was response enough.

He sipped his drink—black, of course—and said nothing else. I took that as permission to breathe.

We sat like that for a minute. No pressure. No rushing.

Then, just as I was starting to mentally pack up and panic later in private, he spoke again.

“Same time tomorrow.”

My heart tripped. “Tomorrow?”

He gave the smallest nod.

I didn’t ask why. Didn’t question it.

“Okay,” I said. “Yes. Tomorrow.”

He backed his chair from the table with the same fluid grace he entered with—quiet, controlled, unhurried.

I watched him go, every part of me buzzing.

Somehow, I’d survived.

And somehow, I was going to see him again.