Ryan’s POV
The boardroom hummed with the excited voices of Blackwood Enterprises’ top executives as they discussed the Winchester Boulevard project. Though everyone else seemed fully engaged, my mind kept drifting away from the projected financial charts and architectural renderings.
It had been exactly one week since that senseless argument with Serena. Seven days of silence. Seven days of replaying her words in my head. Seven days of wondering if I should have handled things differently.
I stared at the presentation without really seeing it, my thoughts a thousand miles away in her design studio. Was she thinking about me too? Or was she relieved by the distance between us?
"Mr. Blackwood? Your thoughts on this approach?"
The question jerked me back to reality. Charles Martin, our head of development, was looking at me expectantly, along with everyone else around the massive conference table. I straightened in my chair, forcing my focus back to the screen.
"The commercial density ratio is too aggressive," I said after scanning the proposal for mere seconds. "We need to balance retail and office space more evenly. And these parking allocations won’t meet code for a development of this size."
Charles nodded vigorously, scribbling notes. "Excellent point, sir. We’ll revise immediately."
I glanced at my watch—almost six. We’d been at this for over two hours.
"The framework looks solid otherwise. Make those adjustments and we’ll reconvene tomorrow." I stood abruptly, effectively ending the meeting.
The executives gathered their materials, exchanging hushed comments as they filed out. Simon, my assistant, was waiting just outside the door, his expression carefully neutral but slightly concerned.
"Sir, I’ve cleared your evening schedule as requested. No dinner appointments or calls."
In the past, nights like these would have meant arranging reservations at Serena’s favorite restaurants. Tonight would just be another evening alone in my penthouse, with only work files for company.
I paused in the corridor, turning to face him. "Do you think I’m in the wrong here, Simon?"
The question seemed to catch him off guard. He shifted uncomfortably before offering a diplomatic smile.
"Sir, if I may speak freely... relationships require compromise, even when you believe you’re right. Sometimes it’s about making the first move, regardless of who started the argument."
"Compromise," I repeated the word slowly, testing how it felt. Throughout my business career, compromise had always seemed like weakness—giving ground when you should be claiming more territory.
Simon cleared his throat gently. "In my experience, sir, letting conflicts simmer too long only makes reconciliation more difficult. Perhaps Miss Quinn is waiting for you to reach out."
I considered his words carefully. Had my pride been keeping me from seeing the obvious? My previous attempts at reconciliation had been halfhearted at best—gestures without genuine understanding.
"Arrange for flowers to be delivered to her studio," I said suddenly. "And make a reservation at La Maison for eight o’clock."
"An excellent choice, sir. The chef’s table?"
"No," I decided after a moment’s thought. "The private dining room overlooking the garden. It’s where we had our first dinner after she agreed to design exclusively for Blackwood."
Simon nodded, already typing the instructions into his tablet. "Would you like me to send a car for Miss Quinn?"
The question gave me pause. "No," I said finally. "I’ll pick her up myself."
As I walked toward the elevator, I felt a strange mixture of anticipation and nervousness—emotions I rarely experienced in business negotiations. But this wasn’t business. This was Serena, and somehow that made the stakes infinitely higher.
In my office, I loosened my tie and stared out at the Manhattan skyline, the city lights beginning to twinkle as dusk descended. I’d built a corporate empire through strategic thinking and calculated risks, yet I found myself uncertain how to bridge the gap with the one person who had somehow become essential to me.
My phone buzzed with a message from Simon: "Reservation confirmed. Flowers will arrive at Dreamland Studio within the hour."
I nodded to myself, slipping the phone back into my pocket. Then I reached for my desk phone and dialed a number I knew by heart.
After three rings, her voicemail answered. Her voice, professional and distant, instructed me to leave a message.
"Serena," I began, surprised by the unexpected roughness in my voice. I cleared my throat and continued, "I’d like to see you tonight. Dinner at La Maison, eight o’clock. I’ll come by the studio."
I paused, the words I really wanted to say catching in my throat.
"We need to talk," I finally added, hanging up before I could say anything more.
I never second-guessed my decisions. Yet here I was, wondering if I’d said too much or too little, if she would accept or decline.
For the first time in years, something more important than Blackwood Enterprises hung in the balance. And I had no strategic playbook to guide me through.