Corporate mixers were the kind of events I'd perfected the art of surviving.
Smile. Shake hands. Listen to people talk about numbers they didn't believe in and deals that hadn't happened yet. Pretend the champagne didn't taste like static. Pretend they weren't watching the clock.
It was routine — another carefully orchestrated evening where everything gleamed but nothing felt alive.
Until she walked in.
I almost didn't recognize her.
Amara.
She'd always been the quiet constant of the office — tidy bun, natural face, soft sweaters that tried not to draw attention. Always polite, always composed. Always background.
But that night, she wasn't background.
Her hair fell in loose waves that caught the light, brushing the edges of a dress that wasn't too bold, but somehow still impossible to ignore. The color — soft, muted rose — should've blended with the crowd. It didn't. It drew the eye.
And her face — there was something about it. Not just the makeup — subtle, balanced, but deliberate — it was the confidence beneath it. Like she'd stepped out of the small box the world had built for her and decided not to go back.
The room shifted.
I watched it happen — heads turning, whispers following. Some appreciative. Some surprised.
She didn't seem to notice. Or maybe she did and chose not to care.
She smiled at someone from the design department, laughing at something I couldn't hear. The sound was light — unguarded — the kind of laugh you didn't hear often in this building.
And I — the man who was supposed to be networking — stood frozen with a glass of champagne halfway to my mouth, watching her.
Pathetic.
I forced myself to look away. To focus on a conversation I didn't care about.
"Adrian," one of the board members was saying, "your team's proposal last quarter—"
But his words blurred.
Because she was walking toward us.
She didn't see me at first.
Her eyes flicked briefly between faces, scanning the room with that quiet curiosity of hers. She moved gracefully, though she probably didn't know it — not the polished elegance of someone born for attention, but the kind that comes from simply being present.
Someone called her name, and she turned — and that's when her gaze caught mine.
Just for a second.
But that second stretched.
Her expression flickered between surprise and something else — something uncertain.
Then she smiled.
Small. Soft. Unassuming. But it did something I wasn't prepared for.
"Excuse me," I muttered to whoever was talking to me, and before I could think better of it, I found myself walking toward her.
"Amara," I said, keeping my tone even.
She turned, startled for half a heartbeat, then composed herself. "Mr. Blake."
Her voice carried differently tonight — steadier, a little warmer, like she'd found a new register she hadn't used before.
"I didn't expect to see you here," I said.
"Neither did I," she admitted, tucking a strand of hair behind her ear. "But… the department insisted. Something about 'team representation.'"
Her fingers brushed the edge of her clutch — small but elegant. "You look—" I caught myself. "You look like you've been working hard."
Her brows lifted slightly, amusement dancing in her eyes. "That's one way to say it."
I couldn't help a quiet laugh. "Alright, fine. You look… different."
"Different good or different bad?"
My throat went dry. "Good."
She smiled — faintly, knowingly. "Thank you."
We stood there longer than we should have. The music from the string quartet drifted between us, too polite to break the silence.
"Do you like these kinds of events?" she asked.
"No," I said honestly. "But they like me, apparently."
She laughed. "That sounds exhausting."
"It is."
She tilted her head, studying me. "Then why come?"
"Obligation," I said. "Habit." Then, after a beat: "Sometimes I forget there's a difference."
Her eyes softened, and for a moment, I thought she might say something — something that would unravel the thin composure I was desperately trying to hold onto. But she just nodded, turning slightly toward the bar.
"Would you like a drink?" she asked.
"I already have one." I raised my glass, half-empty.
"Then maybe another," she said, smiling. "You look like you could use it."
I almost smiled back. "That obvious?"
She shrugged lightly. "Only if you're paying attention."
An hour passed.
Maybe more.
We didn't talk the whole time, but somehow she was always near — a glance across the room, a shared look during someone's dull speech, the faintest brush of her hand as we both reached for the same bottle of sparkling water.
Each moment small. Each one louder than it should've been.
And beneath it all — that quiet, gnawing awareness that something was shifting. Slowly. Irreversibly.
By the time the speeches ended and the crowd began to thin, the lights had dimmed to a soft amber. Music still played, but quieter now — a lazy rhythm made for lingering.
She stood by the glass wall, looking out over the city, the faint reflection of her silhouette mirrored against the night.
I watched her for a long time before I realized I was holding my breath.
But in a split second she slipped away.
I tried to go after her but was held back by business partners introducing some people to me — I wasn't really paying attention but I couldn't walk away.
After all this was why I was was here — To Socialize. To network.