Stan stepped out of his apartment with loose, unhurried ease. He was hungry, but he simply wanted to eat, then spend an hour walking before the evening fully settled.
He had barely cleared the lobby when his phone buzzed in his pocket.
He pulled it out.
[Maya: I’ve sent you everything. Prospectus, financial projections, sourcing breakdown, manufacturing partner shortlist, the works. Take your time. Let me know what you think.]
He opened the files where he stood, leaning against one of the lobby’s exterior columns as he scrolled through them.
The level of detail surpassed even his expectations.
Maya had clearly been working on this for weeks, possibly months, without telling anyone. Every projection was conservative. Every assumption was carefully footnoted. Every manufacturing partner came with supporting case studies, competitive analysis, and a well-reasoned explanation for why they had made the shortlist.
By any objective standard, it was the kind of business plan a venture capitalist would describe as investment-ready.
It also became immediately obvious that Maya had no real intention of letting him invest.
The financial structure made that unmistakably clear.
She had designed the initial funding round to be covered entirely by her own capital, capital her family’s wealth easily provided. The proposed Wanhai partnership appeared only as a future revenue accelerator, not a source of funding. Every section of the plan reinforced the same philosophy: the company would be hers, built in her name, financed with her own money, while outside assistance would be limited to distribution and strategic access.
Stan let out a quiet breath and slowly shook his head.
Trying to change her mind over text would be pointless.
She hadn’t simply reached a decision, she had built an entire strategy around it. This wasn’t the kind of conversation that could happen through messages. He needed to sit across from her somewhere quiet, free of interruptions, and patiently walk her through his reasoning until she truly understood what he was trying to tell her.
He opened a new message.
[Stan: I’ve read everything. We need to talk in person. Have dinner with me tonight. There’s a quiet place near my apartment. I’ll pick you up.]
Her reply arrived less than thirty seconds later.
[Maya: Okay 😊 See you in a bit.]
Stan slipped his phone back into his pocket, abandoned the evening walk, and turned toward the parking garage.
He took the Audi and moved out. The drive to Maya’s apartment was short.
She was already waiting at the curb when he pulled up, dressed in a cream knit top and dark tailored trousers, casual, elegant, the sort of effortless outfit she wore when she wasn’t trying to make an impression. Her hair fell loose over her shoulders, and her makeup was light enough to look almost nonexistent.
She opened the passenger door, slid into the seat, and paused for the briefest moment before pulling the door shut.
Then she turned to him.
Her eyes widened, only slightly, but enough for him to notice.
"...Stan."
"Yes."
"You look..."
She trailed off, studying him. "You look different."
Stan eased the car away from the curb without looking over. "Different how?"
"I don’t know." She frowned thoughtfully, still staring. "You look like..." She tilted her head. "Did you do something to your skin? Have you been getting facials without telling me?"
"No."
"Stan." She leaned a little closer. "Your skin is glowing."
"It’s the light."
She snorted.
"It is absolutely not the light. The lighting in this car is fluorescent and deeply unflattering." She shook her head. "You look like you just walked off a magazine cover."
"I had a quiet afternoon."
"A quiet afternoon does not produce this."
She continued examining him with growing disbelief.
"You actually look... ridiculously good. Like, ridiculously good." She laughed once, almost at herself. "I’m staring, and I genuinely can’t stop. This is not a normal Tuesday evening face, Stan."
"Well, it is a normal face today."
"You’re seriously not going to tell me what you did?"
"There’s nothing to tell."
She narrowed her eyes in the familiar way she always did when she was convinced he was hiding something.
After a long moment, she sighed, leaned back into her seat, and let out a small, amused laugh.
"Fine." She folded her arms. "Be mysterious."
"I’m not mysterious."
She gave him an incredulous look. "You are extremely mysterious, Stan. You’re the definition of mysterious."
A faint smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. The conversation drifted naturally after that, but she never entirely stopped looking at him.
Every few moments, she’d steal another sideways glance, accompanied by the same faint crease between her brows, as though her mind kept circling back to the same unsolved puzzle and refusing to let it go.
The restaurant was barely ten minutes away.
She filled most of the drive with easy conversation, how the cosmetics company’s branding project was progressing, which manufacturer was beginning to edge ahead on her shortlist, and a funny story about a screenplay Sophie had insisted she read.
Stan answered easily, their conversation slipping into the comfortable rhythm that came naturally to two people who had already shared enough of themselves that there was nothing left to perform.
Still, he caught her looking at him more than once.
Each time their eyes met, a faint blush crept into her cheeks before she looked away.
He noticed every one of them. He let her look and said nothing.
The restaurant was a small, well-kept place a few blocks from his apartment, the kind of upscale neighborhood spot that served exceptional food in a quiet, warmly lit dining room.
Being popular, and having already came here with another prominent figure just this morning, the staff knew Stan well enough that the hostess greeted him with a smile before leading them to a secluded corner booth. It was the sort of booth couples gravitated toward when they wanted a conversation that belonged only to them.
Maya picked up her menu and began scanning it.
Stan opened his and turned directly to a section he had never ordered from before.
At the top of the page was the restaurant’s specialty: a slow-braised lamb shank served over saffron rice with roasted root vegetables and a rich reduction described in language that sounded as though the chef had personally written it.
He’d eaten here several times. He’d also ordered the same two or three dishes every visit. He has multiple foods he’d choose over the lamb, but tonight, he chose the lamb.