I woke up to the incessant buzzing of my phone on the bedside table. Groaning, I reached out and answered the call.

"Get up. You have to get ready; it's Media Day!" a husky voice demanded through the line.

"I need some sleep," I mumbled, my voice croaking with exhaustion. I finished the sentence with a yawn.

"As your PR manager, I'm telling you to get up and get moving. I pulled a lot of strings to get you a spot at this press conference," he replied, his tone stern and unyielding.

"Scientists don't have PR managers. What are they going to ask me anyway? I'm no celebrity. I'm scandal-free," I grumbled, eyes still closed.

"I'm your self-appointed PR manager, and you're right. The media doesn't usually care about scientists. But this press conference is your chance to show the world why your work matters," he insisted, emphasizing the importance. That got me awake, but as soon as I opened my eyes, everything seemed too bright. I shut them again as a throbbing pain radiated from my temples to the back of my head.

This hangover will be the death of me.

"Alright. Can I just sleep for ten more minutes?" I muttered, shifting on my bed and burying my face in the pillow, still holding the phone to my ear. For a moment, the darkness eased the pain, but it quickly returned.

"Sophie Esinberg, as your best friend, I'm warning you to get up and get dressed! I worked my ass off to get you this spot. All the celebrity nominees will be there. It's a huge deal," he said, his frustration clear.

He used my full name, which meant I had pissed him off.

"Yes, yes. I'm up. I'll get ready soon," I replied, finally mustering the courage to rise from the hotel bed. I walked to the window, where the curtains were wide open, letting the sunlight flood the room. I balanced the phone between my ear and shoulder as I used both hands to close the heavy maroon velvet curtains.

"I'm running a bit late, so I'll be there in about an hour. I'll meet you in the backstage room," he said, sounding rushed.

"Okay, and also-" He cut me off.

"I've got to go. Sorry. Bye, Soaf. See you soon," he said, hanging up before I could respond.

Daniel was right. Despite my limited experience with the media, I could use Media Day to my advantage. If I could convince people that my project's cause was worthwhile, I might attract investors for my research and bolster my waning labouratory.

I had no idea how I was going to do it, though. The only places I'd ever presented my work were scientific conferences. Facing the media was a whole new challenge.

I stepped into the shower, the hot water cascading over me, a soothing contrast to the pounding headache from last night's excess champagne. As I closed my eyes, trying to wash away the blur of laughter and clinking glasses, his face invaded my thoughts with startling clarity. His ocean-blue gaze, penetrating and deep, seemed to pierce through the layers of my soul. His tousled dark blonde hair framing a smile that could disarm even the most guarded heart. The dimple on his right cheek, the curve of his lips. His jawline was sharp, every feature etched with a familiarity that both comforted and pained me.

With a gasp, I snapped my eyes open, a tightness gripping my chest as memories flooded in. Seventeen-year-old me, standing alone in my room at midnight, tears staining my cheeks as I stared out the window, hoping for solace that never came.

I rubbed my arms, the steam suddenly suffocating as I struggled to catch my breath- the weight of betrayal, the discovery that our love was nothing more than a cruel bet, spun my world into a dizzying whirlwind of humiliation. The weight of seven-year-old pain resurfacing like a tidal wave crashing over me- the echoes of laughter in the school hallways, the mocking whispers that cut deeper than any knife.

Turning off the shower, I wrapped myself in a towel, the hotel room now feeling colder, more cavernous. I drew slow, steadying breaths, my gaze flickering to the mirror that reflected a face still haunted by old wounds.

"It's over. You're okay," I murmured, trying to soothe the storm raging within. Inhaling deeply, exhaling slowly, I repeated the calming ritual until my racing heart slowed its frantic beat.

My attention shifted to the sheet of paper lying on the armoire, scrawled with hastily scribbled notes and strategies for the upcoming press conference. Daniel had warned me about the polished strategies celebrities used in these situations, contrasting sharply with my own unpreparedness. My notes were a chaotic jumble, barely legible and uncertain against the backdrop of polished professionalism.

Taking another deep breath, I steeled myself for the day ahead. I knew that facing the media would require more than just research-it would demand a strength I wasn't sure I possessed.

***

I stepped into the bustling foyer of the grand hotel, the air thick with anticipation and the murmur of voices echoing off the high, ornately decorated ceilings. The marble floor beneath my feet gleamed under the soft lighting, each step I took resonating with the polished surface. Elegant paintings adorned the walls, each one a masterpiece that added to the grandeur of the space, I noticed as I navigated through the throng of people.

Media Day was in full swing, and I could feel the weight of every eye on me as I smoothed down my dress nervously, trying to gather my composure. I wore a tight-fitting black dress that reached a few inches below my knees, with a daring slit that climbed to mid-thigh, offering both allure and the freedom to walk and sit with ease. Gold-polished earrings framed my face, and black velvet pumps completed the ensemble. The atmosphere was electric, reporters buzzing around with notepads and cameras, their eyes sharp and searching for the next big story. Microphones and flashing lights created a dizzying spectacle that only heightened my anxiety.

Daniel's voice cut through the chaos. His tall frame, standing at five-ten, easily findable amid the hurried crowd around him. His black hair was neatly styled, and his boyish smile brought a fleeting sense of comfort. His sharp jawline and lean, muscular build were accentuated by a well-tailored dark-grey suit that spoke of quiet confidence and professionalism.

"Sophie!" Daniel's voice rang out, drawing my attention. His grey eyes, filled with a hint of concern, met mine as he approached. "There you are."

"Hi Danny!" I said as I saw him approaching me amongst the bustling crowd in the foyer. "Hello, Soaf." he said as his arms wrapped around me taking me into a comfortable embrace.

"Don't panic but-", he said as he momentarily closed his eyes and sighed before he continued," Raymond is in this press conference"

"Oh, that's...alright, I guess.", I said as I forced a reassuring smile on my lips, which felt more like a grimace.

"I am so sorry, Soaf. They only took eight out of fifty-two nominees for this press conference and it is supposed to be only the big celebrities, I didn't know Raymond would be here.", Daniel's words coated with a glint of panic.

"Don't worry, Danny. I will be fine", I managed a shaky nod, my gaze briefly flickering to hall across the foyer before returning to Daniel.

Daniel nodded, a reassuring smile crossing his lips. "You've got this," he encouraged, his voice firm but supportive. "Remember, stick to the points we discussed. Show them why your work matters."

The press conference room exuded an aura of anticipation, its walls adorned with the subdued elegance of muted colours and modern art. In the center, a polished wooden stage elevated the eight nominees, each seated in plush, high-backed chairs. Soft spotlights above highlighted their poised figures, casting gentle shadows against the neutral backdrop.

Opposite them, rows of folding chairs accommodated the assembled media reporters and cameramen. Their equipment stood ready, lenses poised like attentive eyes, capturing every moment. The air hummed with whispered exchanges and the occasional click of a camera shutter, punctuating the expectant silence that enveloped the room.

I walked toward the elevated stage, my heart pounding in rhythm with each step. I took my seat, the placard with my name staring back at me, a stark reminder of the spotlight I had reluctantly stepped into. To my left, a blonde girl in a beautiful lilac dress sat elegantly, using her phone as a mirror to fix her lipstick. The placard in front of her read "Bethany Parker." She seemed utterly composed, every movement deliberate and poised.

On my right, a short Asian man sat with perfect posture, his well-tailored Armani suit paired with an expensive Oracle watch. His practiced, tight-lipped smile never wavered. I leaned forward slightly, trying to catch a glimpse of the rest of the nominees seated further down the stage. Two women occupied the end seats, and right in the middle of them was Raymond. He was engrossed in a conversation with the woman to his left, his demeanour relaxed and charming. When his gaze briefly landed on me, a flicker of something like recognition crossed his face before he turned back to his conversation.

I scanned the room, noting how each nominee seemed to emanate composure and confidence, as if being scrutinized by the international media was second nature to them. The weight of their presence, of their ease, pressed down on me. I felt like an outsider, my nerves raw and exposed. Taking a deep breath, I straightened my back against the high-backed chair, forcing myself to adopt a posture of confidence.

In front of the stage, a sea of reporters and camera flashes created a wall of scrutiny. Each sound amplified my anxiety, making the air around me feel thick and suffocating. I focused on the polished marble floor beneath, the intricate patterns a temporary distraction from the intensity of the moment.

"Thank you, everyone, for joining us today," a man announced, holding the mic as he walked in front of the stage facing the media. "We will be starting the conference now," he stated, then approached the reporters with a stack of papers and began distributing them.

As the press conference began, questions flew at everyone but me from all directions. Most were directed at Bethany Parker, a 23-year-old photographer, Carlos Martinez, a 29-year-old businessman recently named in Forbe's 30 Under 30, and Raymond, the famously adored football team captain of the United States.

As more and more questions were directed toward the other nominees and the conference neared its end, I felt my only chance at saving my project slipping from my hands. Anxiousness took over, and I started tapping my foot lightly, watching as the other nominees answered even the most tactical questions with grace and calmness.

I grabbed the water bottle placed in front of me and took a long gulp, hoping to steady my nerves. The crumpled piece of paper on my lap caught my eye. I unfolded it, sSoafming through the bullet points I had scribbled for this conference. This was my moment. I summoned every ounce of strength I had. I was here for a reason, and I would not let anything ruin my cause.

"My next question is for Sophie," a reporter called out, bringing me back to the task at hand. Finally, I had a chance, that is, if I played my cards right.

I cleared my throat, steeling myself. "Yes, please," I replied, trying to regain my focus.

"How do you feel being nominated for this award? I must say at such a young age, you have done well as a scientist," she asked. I tried to spot the reporter amongst the sea of faces.

"If I am being honest, I feel deeply honoured to be nominated for this prestigious award," I said, a smile curling my lips. "But I believe it speaks more for the cause I am working on than for myself." I placed the mic back on my lap, hoping this would lead to a chance to speak about my work. If I played it right, I could highlight my project; otherwise, Daniel's hard work would be in vain.

"Can you tell us some more about this cause?" the reporter asked, following up just as I had anticipated.

Bridging. It's a PR strategy that uses the deflection of a topic into the interviewee's favour. It allows the interviewee to steer the conversation from a potentially negative or uncomfortable topic to a more favourable one. I just had to use it to shift the focus from me to my work.

"Absolutely," I began, leaning forward slightly. "My project focuses on developing sustainable solutions for water purification in underdeveloped regions. Access to clean water is a fundamental human right, yet millions of people lack it. My team and I have been working tirelessly on a filtration system that uses natural, renewable resources to provide safe drinking water. It's not just about scientific achievement; it's about improving lives and giving communities the tools they need to thrive."

I glanced around, noticing the attentive faces of the reporters. Their interest was piqued, and I could see the respect in their eyes. This was my chance to truly make an impact, if the media could print even one article about my work it could do wonders for my project.

"Our latest prototype has shown incredible promise in field tests," I continued. "We're using a combination of advanced nanotechnology and traditional filtration methods to create a system that's both effective and affordable. With the right support, we believe this technology could be implemented on a large scale, bringing clean water to those who need it most."

The reporter nodded, clearly impressed. "That's remarkable, Sophie. Can you share any specific examples of where this technology has been tested?"

"Of course," I said, my confidence growing. "We've conducted trials in several villages in Sub-Saharan Africa, where the need for clean water is dire. The results have been overwhelmingly positive, with significant reductions in waterborne diseases and improvements in overall health. I believe it's proof that if we can scale this technology, we can make a tangible difference."

I felt a sense of triumph as I finished speaking. This was why I was here, to shed light on the importance of my work, to inspire others to support the cause, and to save my project.

Reporters went back to asking questions to other nominees on stage, and I was once again relegated to being a wallflower. No other questions came my way. I felt a mix of anxiety and relief, unsure if I had effectively communicated my message to the press or if they found my cause unworthy of highlighting.

Sitting on the stage for so long with a fake, plastered smile made my jaw ache. I marvelled at how the others did it so flawlessly. My eyes were tired and puffy from constantly struggling against the spotlight to focus on the mass of people before me. I had almost forgotten Raymond was in the same room until reporters started directing questions at him. It was a blessing in disguise.

All these years, I had tried to move on, resisting the urge to look for him on the internet. But it had become more difficult over the past four years since he joined the U.S. football team. Now, through the barrage of media questions, I was getting to know him all over again.

Now, in the span of two and a half hours, I had learned more about his life than I ever wanted to know. He had recently signed a multimillion-dollar contract with a top football team, nurtured a previously unknown passion for painting, and had dated a famous actress, making headlines in various tabloids. He was involved in charity work, had founded a foundation for underprivileged children, and had made a remarkable comeback after a serious injury.

I listened intently, my heart aching with a mix of nostalgia and curiosity. Each new piece of information about him felt like a shard of glass, piercing through the fragile barrier I had built around my memories of us. It was as if the universe had conspired to make me confront everything I had tried so hard to bury. The irony of it all was not lost on me.

Here he was, thriving in the limelight, while I remained a wallflower, barely acknowledged. The anxiety of the moment weighed heavily on me, but I knew I couldn't let it show. Not here, not now. I had to maintain my composure, even as the past loomed large in my mind, blending painfully with the present.

I was exhausted, sitting on the high-backed chair with my chin up and shoulders straight. Every muscle in my body screamed for relief, but I couldn't afford to show any sign of weakness. I just wanted to sigh and lean back, let the chair support my weary frame. My eyes felt tired and puffy, the relentless assault of the spotlight making it a struggle to focus on the sea of faces before me. The ambient noise of murmured conversations and clicking cameras was a dull roar in my ears, and all I could think about was escaping this scrutiny, if only for a moment.

"My next question is for Raymond," a reporter's voice pierced through the air, carrying a hint of familiarity. I squinted, trying to place the high-pitched tone. My gaze swept over the mass of faces, finally landing on a slender figure standing amidst the crowd. The spotlight glared, making it hard to see her clearly, but I could make out her tall, poised silhouette.

"Yes, please," Raymond's deep, resonant voice echoed through the speakers. It was a voice I had both dreaded and desired to hear for the past seven years.

"Hello, I am from Celebrity Buzz New York," the woman reporter announced. My heart sank as I recognized the name of the notorious gossip magazine. Daniel had mentioned it to me multiple times, his frustration evident each time. He had tried to leverage a connection with a junior reporter there to secure me an interview. His efforts had been met with dismissal; apparently, no one was interested in the mundane, scandal-free life of a scientist. They claimed their readers would rather peruse The Federal Register than read about a struggling researcher.

As I sat there, my face still aching from the forced smile I had worn for hours, I couldn't help but agree. The media thrived on scandal and spectacle, not on quiet dedication to a cause. Yet here I was, trying to hold my own in a world that seemed to value everything I wasn't.

"And my question is," the reporter's voice sliced through the charged atmosphere, dripping with calculated drama, "is it true Ms. Esinberg and you were high school sweethearts?"

My stomach lurched, a cold knot forming in the pit of my gut. My breath faltered, coming in shallow, uneven gasps as my heart began to hammer so fiercely that I could almost feel it vibrating in my chest. The entire conference hall erupted into a murmur of surprised whispers and stifled gasps. Flashes from cameras burst around me like staccato bursts of lightning, each flash blinding and relentless. I squinted desperately, my eyes straining to find Raymond amidst the chaos.

When our gazes finally locked, it was as if the world had stopped. His posture was impeccably poised, his face an inscrutable mask of composure. But in that fleeting moment of eye contact, I saw the subtle tremor of panic flicker behind his ocean blue eyes, a fissure in his armour of practiced serenity. He quickly shifted his gaze to the press, his smile now a tight, strained line, and his grip on the microphone visibly tightened, knuckles whitening.

The room seemed to constrict around me, the air thick with the weight of old wounds being reopened. The relentless barrage of camera flashes felt like a personal assault, each burst searing the past into my present.

Raymond's voice, though smooth, carried an undercurrent of stress. "Yes, we did know each other in high school," he said, his tone carefully neutral. "But that was a long time ago. We've both moved on since then."

The reporters, however, were unrelenting. Their questions cut through the air like knives. "What happened between you two?" one shouted, their voice laden with curiosity. "Why did you break up?" another pressed, their tone almost accusatory.

I struggled to keep my composure, my face a mask of forced calm while my emotions raged like a storm just beneath the surface. The past, which I had tried so hard to leave behind, was now thrust into the glaring spotlight, exposed for all to see.

"I appreciate the interest," he continued, "but I believe it's more relevant to discuss the exciting developments I'm currently involved in, rather than revisiting old stories."

His words were carefully chosen, evading the directness of the questions while maintaining an air of effortless charm. He had managed to navigate the minefield of scandalous questions with remarkable finesse, steering the conversation away from uncomfortable territory with practiced ease.

The reporters, though not entirely satisfied, were momentarily subdued. Raymond's deft handling of the situation had shifted the focus away from personal history and back to his professional achievements. The room, now buzzing with a different energy, seemed to release a collective breath as the spotlight moved away from past scandals and towards present accomplishments.

One reporter, unable to resist the allure of a potential scoop, prodded further. "So, what would you say about the impact of your past relationships on your career?"

Raymond's eyes twinkled with a mischievous glint, a smirk playing at the corners of his lips. "I believe that life is a series of chapters," he replied smoothly. "And like a good novel, each one contributes to the person we become. What matters is how we use those experiences to fuel our growth and drive us forward."

Another reporter rose from her seat, her presence commanding immediate attention. She had been the one to unearth and reveal the buried truth of my high school connection with Raymond. "My question is for Sophie", she said as she approached the stage, her silhouette cut a sharper, more defined figure against the flood of flashing cameras. The closer she came, the more her features emerged from the haze of spotlight and murky memories.

My breath caught as recognition dawned. It was Clara Fairclough. An estranged friend, then an acquaintance, but never quite an enemy.

I knew the long-forgotten knowledge of my past with Raymond was not merely a chance discovery. Clara had witnessed it firsthand in high school, standing on the sidelines of our turbulent relationship.

As I glanced at Raymond, a flood of memories surged within me, dragging me back to that parking lot from seven years ago, with Clara.

It was a memory I had cherished but buried deep within, a sanctuary of joy now encased in shadows. Just like I had buried all the good times, his laugh that warmed my heart, the love that had once wrapped around me like a comforting embrace, and the empowerment he had instilled in me. I buried them all to hate him, to find a way forward. Hating him was my refuge, the only way to distance myself from the lingering echoes and festering wounds.

It was also a memory when he had empowered me to stand tall, to hold my ground, and to confront the harsh world with unwavering resolve. I was transported back to that fateful day seven years ago in the school parking lot, where Clara's voice had pierced through the air, hurling insults and accusations at me in front of the entire school. "Conniving bitch," she had called me, her words a searing wound that left me reeling, speechless and devastated.

In the midst of that cruel taunt, as the sting of humiliation threatened to overwhelm me, Raymond had been my steadfast anchor. I recalled the exact moment his hand had slipped into mine, fingers intertwining with mine in a gesture that spoke of silent solidarity. His presence was a beacon of strength in my darkest hour, a promise that I was not alone.

I remember the surge of empowerment as his fingers tightened around mine, an unspoken pact of courage. For the first time, I found my voice, uttering words that were as harsh as they were truthful, defending myself with a newfound strength. Clara's smug expression had faltered, leaving her speechless before the force of my resolve. Even now, I could almost feel the warmth of Raymond's hand clasped around mine, his tall frame a steady presence of pride and support beside me. That memory was both vivid and visceral, grounding me in the face of adversity.

"-there have been whispers about a rather dramatic breakup between you and Raymond," Clara said, her voice slicing through the murmur of the hall like a blade, forcing me back to reality. The way her words lingered in the air hinted at a meticulously planned attack.

"What led to the end of your relationship? Was it as tumultuous as the rumours suggest?", her tone slick with a veneer of professionalism but underscored by a personal vendetta. Her words were laced with an edge of malice, designed to provoke and unsettle.

I took a deep breath, summoning the calm that had eluded me moments before. "I..." I began, but my words were abruptly swallowed by another voice, the one that had now begun to irritate me with relentless persistence.

"I believe I can answer this question, as it pertains to me as much as it does to Ms. Esinberg," Raymond said smoothly as he continued, "Sophie and I simply wanted different things out of life. We had different goals and dreams, and that's all there is to it." He concluded with a practiced smile and a casual shrug, reducing our past to something as mundane and inconsequential as a mere difference in ambitions.

Annoyance and disbelief washed over me like a sudden, cold wave. With a smooth and practiced ease, he shifted the focus from our tangled past to the present, leaving the whispers of our high school romance to dissolve into obscurity.

All because he wasn't affected by our history in the same way I was. To him, it was just young love, an inconsequential chapter in the larger narrative of his life.

He was right about one thing: we did want different things from life. He sought to manipulate me, using my feelings and our relationship as a means to secure his scholarship and advance his own ambitions. Meanwhile, I was left desperate and crippling with wanting him.

A wave of relief and respite washed over me as Media Day finally came to an end. The tension in my shoulders eased as we were led off the stage and into the VIP lounge. The lounge was a stark contrast to the chaotic conference hall, offering a quiet reprieve as the media began to wrap up their equipment and file out, their murmurs fading into the distance. The weight of the day's events lingered, but for now, I allowed myself a moment of peace amidst the plush surroundings.

The lounge exuded opulence, with plush, velvet armchairs in rich jewel tones, artfully arranged in intimate clusters. Crystal chandeliers dangled from the high ceilings. The lounge was framed by rich, dark wood panelling that gave it a timeless, sophisticated feel. Floor-to-ceiling windows stretched along one wall, offering a breathtaking view of the meticulously landscaped gardens outside. The west-facing windows captured the stunning sunset, the sky awash in an ombre of pink and purple, a living painting that seemed to blend seamlessly with the sophisticated art pieces adorning the walls.

In one corner stood a grand piano, its polished surface reflecting the soft lighting like a mirror of elegance. The gentle strains of live classical music floated through the air. Every detail, from the fine china on the tables to the plush carpets underfoot, was meticulously curated, making the lounge not just a VIP area, but a sanctuary of grandeur and comfort.

Behind me, the rhythmic click of heels against the marble floor echoed, managers, makeup artists, and PR teams buzzed quietly, their conversations a soft hum in the background as I searched for Daniel amidst the sea of people.

Unlike every other nominee, I wasn't greeted by my PR team, a.k.a Daniel, in the VIP lounge. The room buzzed with side-eyed glances and hushed whispers, but I ignored them, focusing instead on the crushing pain of my shattered hope to save my labouratory and the cause. I walked purposefully towards a room in the corner of the lounge area. The rich, dark wooden door bore a sign that read "Private" in golden letters. Entering the hospitality suite, I pressed my temples in a futile attempt to ease the proliferating pain in my head. My mind was a whirlwind of thoughts, making it difficult to focus on anything in particular.

Thick velvet curtains were drawn, casting the room into a soothing twilight. At the far end stood a marble fireplace with an intricately carved mantel, adding to the room's inviting warmth. A low-lit chandelier cast a golden glow over the space, creating a cocoon of quiet luxury.

I sank onto the plush sofa in front of the unlit fireplace, pinching the bridge of my nose to alleviate the blinding pain in my head. Rage and hurt swirled within me, a tempest of emotions barely held in check. I practiced deep breathing, trying to wrest control from the overwhelming tide of feelings threatening to drown me. The solitude of the room provided a momentary sanctuary, a place to gather my fragmented thoughts and fortify myself against the chaos that awaited outside.

The wooden frame of the door creaked as it opened, and I stopped pinching my eyebrows to look at the figure entering the suite.

It wasn't Daniel. No, it was the very man who had haunted my dreams and yet left me spellbound every time I saw him. My jaw clenched in anger as I rose from the sofa to face him, a storm of emotions raging beneath my composed facade.

His steps halted, his piercing ocean blue gaze locking onto mine. He opened his mouth, about to speak. "Soaf, are-"

"YOU," I hissed, my voice low and laced with anger, as I pointed a finger at him. "You couldn't help being the knight in shining armour in front of the media, could you?" My words dripped with venom.

"What?" Raymond's brows scrunched in confusion.

"I was going to answer the question, Raymond. But you had to cut in and make me look weak in front of the entire media!" My tone was sharp, accusing, each word a dagger aimed at his heart. "It's already damaging enough that now the entire world will know we were once-" I stopped mid-sentence, struggling to find the right word, "well... whatever we were."

Raymond had the audacity to stifle a scoff. "I was doing us both a favour, Soaf," he said, licking his lower lip. His eyes swept over my frame before settling back on mine, a flicker of something unreadable in their depths.

"A favour?" I rolled my eyes, giving him a pointed look. "Nobody is going to remember a low-life scientist, Raymond, especially one so weak that you had to swoop in to save her. Let alone remember the cause she is working for."

"Soaf-" he started, but I cut him off again.

"My name is Sophie," I enunciated each syllable, reminding him that I was no longer the weak, vulnerable girl he once knew. The girl who once loved him.

He swallowed hard, his throat working with a visible effort as he drew in a deep breath. "Sophie," he said, the name emerging from his lips with a tenderness that seemed at odds with the tension crackling between us. His voice, strained yet achingly sultry, wrapped around each syllable as though he were savouring the taste of my name on his tongue. My heart faltered, a stuttered beat echoing through my chest as I heard my name slip from him with an almost reverent softness, a delicate caress that brushed against my emotions with an unsettling intimacy.

I tilted my gaze upward, focusing on the intricately carved ceiling, as if its elabourate patterns could offer a reprieve from the intensity of his stare. I pressed my fingers gently against the curve of my neck, seeking to ease the relentless stiffness that had resulted from the past three hours of rigid posture. The gentle pressure of my fingers provided only a fleeting comfort.

Raymond continued, "-you are not trained to face the media," he stated as a fact. "They can be cruel and inciting," Raymond's voice was heavy with concern, "They'll push you past your limits, just to provoke a reaction."

"I am fully capable of handling the media," I retorted, striving to muster every ounce of self-assurance I had left.

"It was Clara on the other end, Sophie," he said, each syllable of her name carrying a weight that made my heart ache. The mention of Clara dredged up the haunting echoes of the parking lot, where old wounds had never truly healed.

"She would have pushed it too far, just to get a reaction out of you," Raymond continued, his voice a tentative attempt to soothe me, yet failing to mask the underlying tension.

"And what was she doing here anyway?" I demanded, my voice laced with suspicion.

"Why are you asking me? Why would I know?" His shoulders lifted in a questioning shrug, a subtle hint of defensiveness in his posture.

"I don't know... you might still be in touch with her, for all I know," I shot back, biting the inside of my cheek to keep my anger in check as I subconsciously took a step closer to him.

"I am not," he said, his tone firm yet laden with a strain that betrayed his composed facade. His eyes, intense and searching, locked onto mine as he stepped closer, the air between us crackling with unresolved tension. "Look, despite your notes-" His gaze dropped momentarily to my fisted hand, where a crumpled piece of paper had once been, before his eyes returned to meet mine with an unwavering intensity. "-and your brilliant use of bridging in your answer, the truth is, you're not really trained for this," he said, as if laying bare an undeniable fact.

The space between us seemed to shrink, making me acutely aware of his presence. The familiar scent of cinnamon, warm and inviting, wrapped around me like a cocoon, beneath that comforting aroma lingered a rich, smoky undertone of leather and a hint of amber, a scent that spoke of sophistication and subtle power. Each breath I took drowning in that intoxicating blend brought me closer to my undoing.

His proximity was electric, his voice low and fervent, making my heart race with a mix of frustration and something far more profound. As his words settled in the space between us, the atmosphere grew heavy reminding me of the intricate dance we had once danced and the tumultuous emotions that had never truly faded.

"What notes?" I asked defensively, my voice tight with irritation as I rubbed my eyebrow, desperately trying to dispel the prickling tension between us. I looked up, meeting his gaze with a fierceness that belied the turmoil roiling beneath my surface.

A smirk played at the corners of his lips, a gesture both infuriating and undeniably magnetic. His eyes, once sharp and discerning, softened as they locked onto mine with a lingering intensity that left me unsettled. The warmth of his gaze felt almost tangible, a caress that traced along my skin and stirred a sense of vulnerability I had tried so hard to shield.

"Right-," he said, his attention shifting as the door creaked open.

"I am so sorry, Soaf-" Daniel's voice faltered as his gaze fell upon Raymond and me, standing by the fireplace.

"Danny-" I rushed towards him, relief flooding over me. "Why are you sorry? I should be the one apologizing. I fucked up." I said, my brows knitting together in confusion as I saw Daniel's grey eyes remained fixed on Raymond, a silent tension thickening the air between the three of us. The pause stretched interminably heavy with the weight of unspoken words. Raymond, perceptive as always, caught the subtle shift in our dynamic. He nodded slightly, a tacit understanding passing between us, before stepping back with a grace that spoke volumes.

As he moved toward the door, Raymond's gaze lingered on me for a heartbeat longer. His eyes, intense and unyielding, softened slightly as he spoke. "It'll be better if you take some medicine for your headache," he suggested, his voice carrying an unexpected note of concern. "It's likely due to the long hours of exposure in the spotlight. You're not used to it."

He turned to leave, the door swinging shut behind him with a quiet finality, leaving me alone with Daniel.

I grasped Daniel's hands in my own, the warmth of his touch a comfort amidst the turmoil. "Danny, I-" I began, my voice trembling with the weight of my apology, but he stopped me with a firm, yet gentle, shake of his head.

"I am the one who invited Clara to this press conference," he said, his grey eyes meeting mine with a mixture of apology and resolve.

The revelation hit me like a thunderclap, the room around us seeming to blur into a haze. My heart sank as I processed the impact of his admission. Daniel, who had dedicated himself so fiercely to securing this moment for me, had also inadvertently played a part in the chaos.