By the time Lutte stepped into the glass-walled boardroom, the morning hum of Valance Ventures had sharpened into focus.
Department heads were already filtering in—Engineering, Manufacturing, Data Analysis, Marketing—each carrying their own notes, expressions a mix of curiosity and steel.
At the head of the table, Shira stood like a conductor about to cue an orchestra.
"Good morning, everyone," she began crisply, handing out the neatly collated packets she had prepared.
"Today's meeting is centered on firsthand client feedback gathered personally by CEO Valdes. We'll be hearing his findings, then moving into cross-department discussion."
With practiced grace, she yielded the floor.
Lutte rose, carrying not just data, but the weight of stories. He placed a stack of handwritten notes on the table, the inked scrawl of his observations visible even from a distance.
"These," he said warmly, "are not numbers first. They're people. Their kitchens, their long shifts, their hopes for better tools." He clicked the screen to reveal summarized charts, but instead of starting there, he recounted voices.
Mrs. Amelia, who swore by the stoves but worried about overheating.
The skeptical critic who demanded more fail-safes for solar optimization.
The newcomer who admitted she only tried because a friend raved about them.
The Michelin-star chef who reminded him that elegance in design was as vital as function.
One by one, he laid them out.
Then, with an open gesture: "Now—it's your turn. How do we transform these voices into solutions?"
At first, the discussion was measured.
Engineers suggested efficiency tweaks. Marketing argued for communication strategies. Data Analysis pushed the importance of hard numbers over anecdotal stories.
But soon the tempo rose.
"What's the point of adding features if costs double?"
"If we don't innovate boldly, we'll be obsolete in five years!"
"Clients want results now, not idealistic experiments!"
The debate simmered, heated but alive, ideas clashing like sparks against steel.
Lutte let it roll for a while, listening.
Watching.
Then, when the air thickened with too much friction, he lifted his hand. His voice, calm but commanding, cut through.
"Enough. We are not here to prove who's right. We are here to find what works."
The silence that followed was heavy, but respectful.
He leaned forward, eyes steady.
"Here's what we'll do. Practical measures—small refinements—go straight to testing. More ambitious concepts will be run virtually first. Only if they survive that stage will they go to prototype review under Engineering."
He let that settle, then added, softer: "Innovation isn't machines first. It's people. Never forget that."
There were nods around the table. The temperature cooled. Consensus began to take shape.
The meeting adjourned two hours later, not with exhaustion but with a quiet current of energy.
Each department head walked out with both tasks and a sense of direction.
At the door, Lutte personally thanked each one, handing out neatly wrapped packages of baked goods from Mrs. Amelia—the kind of small, thoughtful gesture that had become his signature.
Some chuckled, some shook their heads, but all left lighter than they had entered.
In the corner, Shira was already compiling the reports, her fingers moving fast over her tablet.
"That's everything wrapped," she said, adjusting her glasses.
"You're free until one p.m. I've blocked the afternoon for inspections and progress checks with collaborators."
"Perfect," Lutte replied, smile widening. He waved casually as he headed out. "Don't let them steal you from me, Shira."
She only gave him that unimpressed-but-fond look she reserved for his dramatics.
Outside, Arnold was already waiting by the car, door open. Lutte slid in, loosening his tie, gaze already drifting toward the window.
"Home first," he said. "Need to change."
Arnold quirked an eyebrow as he pulled onto the street. "You're not heading to the office again after?"
"Nope." Lutte's grin turned boyish. "The mall."
Arnold huffed a laugh, shaking his head. "Boss, you must really be counting on luck if you're circling back to that bookstore again to get your hands on the signed copy of the book you like."
"Maybe," Lutte drawled, leaning back in his seat.
Then, with mock seriousness: "Or maybe I'm just a damsel in distress hoping to glimpse a prince."
Arnold nearly swerved, guffawing. "You're impossible, sir."
Lutte laughed with him, the sound light, easy, genuine.
But behind the humor, his mind lingered not on luck, but on a pair of sharp peridot eyes—and the question of whether fate might be generous enough to let their paths cross again.
The mall buzzed with its usual rhythm: shoppers laden with bags, children tugging at parents, the smell of coffee and baked goods wafting through the air.
Lutte walked among them, hands in his pockets, whistling a tune so off-key that a passing child laughed and tugged at her mother's hand.
He chuckled at himself, shaking his head. A thirty-year-old CEO, whistling through a mall like a fool.
Still, there was a warmth in his chest he didn't bother denying. He was here on business—his business with fate.
Let me glimpse him again, that red-haired prince.
The thought amused him, and he laughed under his breath at his own dramatic phrasing.
He reached the bookstore, pushed open the glass doors, and let the familiar scent of paper and ink surround him.
The aisles stretched out like a map of possibility, filled with hushed voices and rustling pages.
But no trace of the one he wanted to see.
No red hair. No calm, steady presence hiding in plain sight.
For a moment, disappointment flickered in his chest, but he brushed it away. He was here anyway; books would keep him company.
He wandered the aisles until, by chance, he drifted into the children's section. Colorful covers lined the shelves, whimsical titles promising wonder.
And then his hand stilled.
There it was.
The Little Prince.
The copy gleamed in its modern binding, but the title alone pulled him back across years.
To a thrift store. To a younger self, clutching the book like treasure. He remembered reading it in the dim light of a shared foster room, tears stinging his eyes as the fox whispered wisdom.
"You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed."
Sixteen then, hollow and raw. Thirty now, with more scars but also more to give. The words burrowed deeper than ever.
Lutte sighed, gently returning the book to its shelf.
My old copy's still enough. It is still holding on strong at my nightstand.
He turned, intending to grab some random title to check out before heading home. And then—
Movement by the entrance caught his eye.
A figure slipping through the doors with practiced nonchalance. Sling bag across one shoulder.
Simple clothes, understated. But unmistakable.
Red hair, tempered by disguise.
Peridot eyes scanning the shelves.
Asher.
Lutte's smile spread before he even realized it. His heart thumped, ridiculous but alive.
He straightened, adjusted his shirt as if that would help, and moved toward him with the steady confidence of someone who had already decided not to miss this chance.
He reached the end of the aisle, leaning casually against the shelf before stepping forward.
His voice was warm, familiar, threaded with amusement.
"Seems the bookstore has a habit of attracting princes."