Bea’s POV
There was something sacred about the way the elevator doors opened to a new floor and a new beginning. The walls were matte black with warm lighting, the kind of glow that didn’t scream “corporate” but whispered “we trust you.” My heels clicked across the polished concrete floor like they belonged there, and for the first time in a long time—I believed they did.
Verve & Co. wasn’t just another job. It was a statement. I walked into the open-concept office with my curls pinned high, my lipstick bold, and my blazer unapologetically fuchsia. No one looked twice. No one whispered. They nodded. Smiled. A few even complimented my earrings—strawberry-shaped, because why the hell not?
“Beatriz Martinez,” someone called from the glass-walled corner office. “Welcome home.”
It was Maya, the creative director I’d admired from afar for years. Except now, we were equals. I had my own team. My own budget. My own seat at the damn table. When I stepped into my office—a real office, with a window and my name already printed on the glass—I had to blink twice. It felt earned. Not handed. And definitely not something I had to shrink myself to deserve.
The morning flew by. Introductions. A strategy meeting. A design review where no one talked over me. I spoke, and people took notes. I made a joke, and people laughed because they actually found it funny—not because they were scared not to.
By lunch, my phone buzzed. A delivery. A tall bouquet of wildflowers—lavender, eucalyptus, blush peonies. There was a note tucked inside. No logo. No sender name.
Just Julian’s handwriting: “Proud of you. Still rooting for you. No expectations.”
I stared at it for a long moment. I didn’t smile. I didn’t cry. I just felt it—soft and sharp all at once. I didn’t reply. But I didn’t throw the card away either.
By three o’clock, I was elbow-deep in pitch boards and campaign notes, high on adrenaline and oat-milk lattes. My assistant, Terri, poked her head in and said, “You have a good eye. People are already talking.” Her smile wasn’t forced. She didn’t sound surprised that I was good—she expected it. That was new. I wasn’t fighting for my seat anymore. I was seated. Firmly.
At five, I spun in my chair to take in the view—downtown spread out like an empire I’d finally carved space into. My phone buzzed again. A message from Lydia.
You’re glowing. Julian won’t stop talking about how proud he is. Don’t let it mess with your head. Just wanted you to know.
I stared at the screen, a bitter-sweet ache tightening in my chest. I hadn’t told him where I was working. He must’ve figured it out on his own. No expectations, he’d written. But he still sent flowers. Still talked about me. Still hovered like a ghost I wasn’t ready to exorcize.
A knock on my door. Terri again. “You have a visitor.” I frowned. “At five-thirty? ”She smiled strangely. “He said he’s not staying. Just dropping something off.” And then he was there.
Julian Wolfe, standing in the doorway of my new kingdom, holding two coffees like a peace offering. No suit today. No tie. Just dark jeans, a navy button-down, and that carefully unkempt hair I hated loving. I stood slowly, heart knocking against my ribs. “What are you doing here?”
He held up the coffee. “Hazelnut, oat milk, no sugar. The one you pretend to hate but always finish.”
I narrowed my eyes. “That’s not an answer.” He stepped inside, slow, deliberate. “I didn’t come to ask for anything. Or fix anything. I just thought… Maybe I could walk you to your car. Like a normal man.”
I stared at him for a long second. Too long. Long enough that I hated myself for how much I’d missed that stupid half-smile he was giving me.
“You really think coffee and a walk make up for everything?” I asked, stepping around my desk but keeping it between us.
“No,” he said immediately. “I think nothing will ever make up for everything. But it’s a start.”
I scoffed. “Are you showing up where I work again? That doesn’t feel like starting over. That feels like stalking.”
His smile dropped. “I asked HR permission. Didn’t even come up the elevator until your assistant said it was okay. I’m not here to push. I just… I wanted to see you. Not in a suit. Not in my building. Here. In your world.”
I leaned against the desk, arms crossed, eyes narrowed. “And what, you just show up every time I do something good now? Like a cheerleader in Armani?”
Julian walked a step closer and stopped, hands up in surrender. “I’m not here to crowd you, Bea. I’m here to show you I can be near you without owning you.”
I didn’t expect the words to hit like that. I didn't expect the truth of them to feel like a slow exhale I hadn’t allowed myself in weeks.
“So you’re just a guy with coffee now?” “If you’ll let me be.” There it was again. That almost-softness. That careful humility that felt alien on him—but real. Like maybe, for once, the man behind the brand was showing up.
“I have meetings all week,” I said, deflecting. He nodded. “Then I’ll walk you out quietly. I won’t come again unless you say I can.”
Terri popped her head back in and said gently, “The parking garage closes at seven, Bea.” Julian raised an eyebrow, holding out the cup again. “So?”
I sighed. Loudly. But I took the coffee. “Let’s go.” We rode the elevator down in silence. Not awkward silence—but the kind that hummed with everything we didn’t know how to name yet. I sipped the coffee, pretending it didn’t taste like nostalgia and bad timing.
When the doors opened, he stepped aside to let me out first. “Which level?” he asked, like we hadn’t spent years sharing rides where he never asked anything.
“B2,” I muttered, trying not to read too much into the fact that he remembered exactly where my car used to be when I worked in his building.
We walked side by side through the concrete tunnel, footsteps echoing like drumbeats. Julian didn’t reach for my hand. Didn’t say anything clever. Just let me walk at my own pace.
“You seem different,” I said finally, voice barely above the buzz of fluorescent lights. “I am,” he said. “But not because I lost you. Because I realized I never really had you. Not the way you deserved.”
I bit the inside of my cheek. “You talk prettier now.” He smiled faintly. “Therapy. And regret.”
We reached my car. I unlocked it, not getting in yet. Julian turned to me, and for once, there was no smirk, no shield. Just a man who used to be a storm trying to learn how to stand still.
“You look happy here,” he said. “I am.” “Good.” He handed me the last of the coffee. “I’ll let you go.” Then softly, almost too softly. “Can I walk you to your car like a normal man?”