Lorato arrived at the penthouse just after 6 p.m., dressed like a woman who wasn't just visiting, but auditioning for something she hadn't yet admitted to herself. Her jeans hugged her in all the right places, the blush on her cheeks matched the wine in her hand, and her smile? It was the kind that hoped.
Rama opened the door barefoot, still in a plain white tee and ripped black joggers. His hair was tousled from a nap, and the smell of fabric glue and eucalyptus oil clung to the air.
"Lorato," he said, surprised but not unwelcoming.
"Told Melissa I'd swing by. Just me tonight. Hope that's cool?"
He hesitated for half a breath, then stepped aside. "Yeah. Sure. Come in."
She waltzed in like she belonged, wine bottle tucked under her arm, eyes already scanning the studio.
"Working on something?"
"Trying to," he said. "But it's mostly just sketches and discarded ideas tonight."
Lorato sat on the couch, crossing her legs slowly, intentionally. "Well, maybe you need a muse. Or a break."
Rama chuckled. "Maybe both."
She poured wine into two tumblers from the kitchen counter. No glasses. No pretenses.
As the night deepened, so did the conversation. Music playing low, their voices hushed with intent. Lorato leaned closer, laughed harder, touched his arm more. Rama noticed, but didn't lean in. Not the way she hoped. Not even close.
His eyes wandered to the hallway more than once.
"You keep looking like she's gonna appear," Lorato said finally, her tone light but her gaze sharp.
Rama blinked. "Who?"
"Melissa."
He looked away. "Just a habit, I guess."
Lorato leaned back, suddenly quiet. The wine didn't taste as sweet anymore.
At Botho Group Headquarters, the Innovation Wing pulsed with its usual clinical brilliance, all glass panels and high-tech silence. Max Botho leaned back in his chair, jaw clenched as Jonathan Tema finished the final slide of the proposal.
Melissa's name was everywhere.
Her face. Her impact. Her numbers. Her brand power. Her story.
Max stared at the pitch deck without blinking. Jonathan cleared his throat.
"It's aggressive, yes. But she's not just another designer. She's a cultural force. You know it, sir. We all do."
Max said nothing.
His silence stretched across the room, so tight it could split concrete.
Finally, his phone rang, it was his mother. "Jonathan, excuse me."
He stepped into his office, answered. "Ma."
"I saw the proposal," she said without preamble. "Vote in favor."
"You read it?"
"Twice. Melissa is bold, capable, and dangerous in the best way. If she wants in, we take her in. You have personal issues, I get it. But Botho Group comes first."
Max leaned against the glass wall. Closed his eyes. "She's... complicated."
"So are you. That's why it works."
Max opened his eyes. Something in him unclenched.
By the time he returned to the boardroom, he picked up a pen and signed the approval sheet.
"Prepare the official offer," he said.
Jonathan raised a brow. "Sir?"
"You heard me. Draft it. And send her my regards."
Later that evening, Max stood alone in his office, Gaborone's city lights reflecting in the glass. He held his phone, thumb hovering.
Finally, he typed:
Max: "Tell your assistant to clear your morning. We're going to be coworkers now. Try not to fall in love with me again."
He hit send and smiled, the kind of smile that spelled trouble.
Melissa stepped into her car as Dineo handed her a thick white folder marked: "Confidential: FireThreads x Botho Group Integration Proposal."
"Max approved it?" she asked, buckling her seatbelt.
"He signed it two hours ago," Dineo said. "But not before arguing with the board for nearly thirty minutes. Then his mother called."
Melissa arched a brow. "Let me guess. She reminded him who wears the crown?"
"Something like that."
Melissa waited until she was inside her penthouse, glass of whiskey in hand, before she opened the folder. Her eyes moved over numbers, projections, and board notes. But it was Max's note, scribbled in pen at the bottom of the last page, that caught her attention:
She stared at it, laughed and hated that she laughed because something twisted in her. That damn mix of rage, history, and need, forbidden longings.
Moments later, her phone buzzed with a text from Max. She didn't reply, not yet anyways
Because somewhere in her heart, a door cracked open. Not for Max. Not entirely.