THE CEO's REGRET

NAOMI POV:

I didn’t expect his name to knock the wind out of me before I even saw his face.

The elevator doors opened on the forty-second floor, and there it was. “HALE INDUSTRIES”, those bold black letters carved into white marble like they owned the whole damn building. Like they still owned a piece of me.

Sixteen years ago, that same name had stood at an altar and picked someone else while I was three months pregnant, biting my lip so hard it bled just so no one would see me cry.

I stood there frozen for two painful heartbeats, throat squeezing tight. Then I pulled myself together, walked up to the receptionist, and gave her the best smile I could fake.

“Ms. Reed. They’re ready for you.”

I’d practiced that smile in the bathroom mirror that morning while my coffee went cold on the sink. *You’re here for the contract, not him. You’re not that girl anymore.*

My reflection just stared back at me with eyes that had never been any good at lying.

Charcoal blazer, hair pinned back tight, low heels. Sixteen years of learning how to walk into a room and make everyone think I had my shit together.

But today, one thought kept echoing in my head, loud and stubborn: *I’m not someone you broke. I’m someone you lost.*

The coordinator led me down a long hallway that smelled like expensive wood, lemon cleaner, and the kind of quiet regret that only old money can carry. The air felt too cool against my skin. She stopped at the last door.

“Just through here.”

I told myself it wouldn’t matter who was waiting on the other side. The moment that door opened, I knew I was full of shit.

---

He was standing at the window with his back to the room, shoulders stiff like the city had disappointed him all over again. The light caught the new silver at his temples — grey that hadn’t been there before.

When the door clicked shut behind me, he turned.

His eyes found mine first.

Grey eyes.

The same ones I woke up to every morning in my daughter’s face.

My chest clenched so hard I forgot how to breathe. His cologne drifted over — clean, woody, way too familiar — and it hit me like a wave I wasn’t ready for. I forced my legs to move anyway, my heels clicking too loud on the marble floor.

I pulled out a chair, sat down, opened my folder, and looked straight at the events coordinator across the table, refusing to glance his way.

“Should we start with venue capacity or… the budget ceiling?”

She blinked, a little surprised. “Um, budget, I think.”

“Good.”

I still didn’t look at him. The air in the room grew heavier, thick and electric, like the sky right before a storm rolls in. He walked over and took his seat at the head of the table. Everything in the room seemed to lean toward him, the way it always had. Some things never change. And God, I hated that my body still remembered.

“Ms. Reed.” His voice was lower now, rougher, like the years had scraped it raw. “Thank you for coming in.”

“Thank you for the opportunity,” I said, finally lifting my eyes to meet his.

It hit me harder than I wanted it to. I kept my face blank, not giving him a single crack to see through.

---

The meeting dragged on for fifty-three minutes. I know because I kept staring at the clock above his head, counting every tick so I wouldn’t feel the rest of what was happening inside me.

Catering. AV setup. Vendor timelines. I stayed sharp, professional, locked in. I shoved down the memory of that little café on Renner Street, where sitting quietly with him had once felt safer than home.

I wouldn’t let myself go there.

Sebastian mostly just listened. That was different. The man I used to know filled every room without even trying. This version sat back, quiet and watchful, like he’d learned that words came with a cost.

His eyes kept coming back to me every time I spoke. Not mean. Not teasing. Just… searching. Like I was still a question he hadn’t figured out.

I was in the middle of talking about vendors when I noticed his pen was capped. He wasn’t writing anymore. He was staring at my hands — at the way my fingers kept folding the corner of the page every time I made a note. That old habit I didn’t even know I still had.

He used to tease me about it, voice warm and laughing. “You’re doing it again.”

“Then buy me a notepad,” I’d always say.

The next morning, there’d be a fresh notepad waiting with a Post-it in his handwriting: *For the folder.*

My fingers froze. My heart slammed against my ribs.

“The florist portfolio,” I said, keeping my voice even. “I’ll need it by Thursday.”

He slowly lifted his eyes from my hands to my face.

“Done,” he said quietly.

One word. But it landed heavy — like a promise he had no business making, like he was closing a door he already knew he couldn’t keep shut.

---

The coordinator left first. I closed my folder nice and slow, stood up, and took just enough time packing my things — not rushing, not lingering, giving him nothing extra to read into.

I grabbed my bag and turned for the door.

“Naomi.”

Just my name. Spoken like something he’d been carrying around for way too long.

I stopped cold. I didn’t turn around.

Outside the windows, the city kept moving, loud and careless. Inside that room, the silence felt suffocating.

One breath. Two.

I walked out. The door clicked shut behind me.

---

The elevator was empty. As the doors closed, I looked at myself in the mirror and whispered, “You were fine. That was fine.”

My hands didn’t shake. My face looked okay.

Then my phone buzzed.

Unknown number.

One line: “He didn’t just find you today. He’s been watching you for over a year. Ask him why.”

I read it once. Twice. Then again, because it still didn’t make any sense.

The elevator opened into the busy lobby. I stood there holding the phone, something cold and sharp settling deep in my chest.

*He’s been watching my company for over a year.*

I put the phone away, walked out into the cool September air that stung my face, and got into my car. I sat there without starting the engine, heart still racing.

Grey eyes that had found me first. That quiet “done” that sounded too much like a vow. And this one scary thought that wouldn’t leave me alone:

What if I wasn’t the only one who had been preparing for this all along?