Ethan's POV)
Three days.
That was how long Ethan Harrison managed to avoid calling Ophelia.
Not because he didn't want to.
Because he didn't want to seem too eager.
His phone lay on his office desk as he stared at the message she had sent the previous night.
Ophelia: Good luck with your meeting tomorrow.
It was a simple message.
Eight words.
Yet somehow, it had made him smile before he'd even gotten out of bed.
"Sir?"
His assistant's voice pulled him back to reality.
He looked up.
Samantha stood in front of his desk, holding a file against her chest.
"You've been staring at your phone for almost five minutes."
"I have not."
"You smiled."
"I smile."
She raised an eyebrow.
"Not during board meetings."
He sighed.
"You sound like my father."
"I'm taking that as a compliment."
She placed the file on his desk.
"The investors are waiting."
Ethan nodded.
"I'm coming."
The meeting lasted nearly three hours.
Figures.
Budgets.
Expansion plans.
Everyone around the table seemed enthusiastic.
Ethan wasn't.
His mind wandered more than once.
It wandered to an art gallery.
To scattered pieces of polished metal.
To a woman who somehow found meaning in broken things.
"...Mr. Harrison?"
He blinked.
"I'm sorry?"
One of the directors smiled politely.
"We were asking whether you'd prefer the Abuja project to begin this quarter or the next."
"This quarter."
The answer came automatically.
The meeting continued.
But when it finally ended, Ethan did something that surprised even himself.
Instead of heading back to his office, he picked up his phone.
He opened Ophelia's chat.
He typed.
Busy this weekend?
He stared at it.
Deleted it.
Typed again.
Would you like to grab coffee?
Deleted that too.
"What is wrong with me?" he muttered.
Finally, he took a deep breath and pressed send.
Ethan: There's a riverside art market on Saturday afternoon. I thought you might enjoy it. No pressure if you're busy.
He locked his phone immediately, as though doing so would stop him from regretting it.
Twenty minutes passed.
No reply.
Thirty.
Still nothing.
By the time he reached the underground parking garage, his phone vibrated.
He unlocked it so quickly he nearly dropped it.
Ophelia: You remembered I like art.
He smiled.
Then another message appeared.
I'd love to come.
For reasons he couldn't explain, the rest of the day suddenly felt lighter.
Saturday arrived with clear blue skies.
The riverside market was alive with music and conversation.
Artists displayed paintings beneath white tents.
Potters shaped clay before fascinated crowds.
Local musicians filled the air with soft acoustic melodies.
The scent of roasted corn, grilled meat, cinnamon pastries, and fresh coffee drifted through the walkways.
Ethan spotted Ophelia before she noticed him.
She wore a simple white blouse tucked into light-blue jeans, with her hair tied back in a loose ponytail.
No expensive jewelry.
No elaborate makeup.
She looked...
Effortlessly beautiful.
She turned.
Their eyes met.
"There you are."
"I was beginning to think you'd gotten lost," she teased.
"I nearly did."
She laughed.
"I've heard men refuse to ask for directions."
"I was preserving my dignity."
"You were protecting your pride."
"Same thing."
She shook her head, smiling.
"I'll let you believe that."
They wandered slowly through the market.
Every stall seemed to spark another conversation.
At one booth, an elderly painter displayed landscapes filled with warm evening light.
Ophelia stopped.
She studied one painting for almost a full minute.
Ethan watched her rather than the artwork.
"What do you see?" he asked.
She folded her arms.
"Loneliness."
He frowned.
"It looks peaceful to me."
"It does."
She pointed toward the tiny cottage in the distance.
"See the smoke coming from the chimney?"
He nodded.
"Someone is home."
She smiled sadly.
"But no one is standing outside waiting for them."
He looked back at the painting.
He hadn't noticed.
"I think that's why I love art," she said quietly.
"It tells a different story to everyone."
They continued walking.
One artist invited visitors to create a painting together on a giant blank canvas.
Children eagerly covered it with colorful handprints.
Without warning, a little boy grabbed Ophelia's hand.
"Come paint!"
She looked surprised.
"Oh... I don't know."
"You have to!"
The child had already pulled her toward the canvas.
Ethan laughed.
"I don't think you have a choice.