Page 8 of Oliver
I flinched internally but maintained my composed expression. I signaled the waitress and ordered a plate of sugar cookies. Oliver’s favorite.
"Name your price," I said once we were alone again.
"Some things can't be bought, Zahra."
"You're literally for hire, Oliver. That's the entire job."
His eyes widened for a moment, clearly caught off guard by my directness, then his expression blanked again. He scribbled something on a napkin, pressing the pen so hard it left small tears, before slowly sliding it over with two fingers.
I glared at the outrageous number, my heart thudding as I stood, my chair scraping against the laminated floor. "Okay. I get it. You don't want to do this. You don't want to see me. You don't want to help me. Fine."
Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes, and I turned to leave, already calculating my next move. Who could I call? How fast could I pivot? The panic pressed tight behind my ribs, but I held my head high and walked away. Two steps, then?—
"Zahra, wait."
Something had shifted in his tone. The stabbing sharpness was gone, replaced by a weary edge. I hesitated, then turned, finding Oliver staring at his phone with a tired gaze, his fingers deep in his coiffed hair that could use a haircut.
"Okay, I'm in." He handed me the napkin with a zero marked off his original number. "Is this more acceptable?"
I stared at the number. Still high, but I could work with this. Slowly, I returned to my seat, inspecting Oliver for any sign of deceit in the sharp cut of his jaw.
"What changed your mind?"
He glanced at his phone again, jaw ticking, before his lips curled into something almost like a smile. "Chance to rub it in Ryan's face? Priceless."
I studied him for a moment before nodding and writing my counteroffer. "This is all I have. All my savings."
Oliver barely glanced at the new number before nodding.
"You should know that RAD's contract only covers eight hours a day," he said. "Anything beyond that would be a private arrangement between us."
"Understood."
Oliver studied me for a long moment, then held out his hand. "Business card."
I passed it over, trying to keep my fingers steady.
"You'll have my terms by the end of the day," he said, standing. "We'll meet at your office in two days to review the contract. After that," he buttoned up his coat, "I'll make my final decision."
He left me sitting there, two practically untouched coffees and a half-eaten cookie in front of me, wondering if I'd just made the biggest mistake of my life or found my only chance of survival.
Three
OLIVER
I arrivedat Lumina Event Management on Friday at exactly 5:25 PM, five minutes before my appointment with Zahra. Punctuality was a point of professional pride, and today, it was also armor.
Lumina. Three days later, and the name still twisted something in my gut.
When I first looked at her business card after leaving the café, I nearly backed out of the booking. Of all the names she could have chosen, she'd built her company on the nickname I'd given her when we were kids, back when she was the only one who brought light into my life.
A corridor of doors greeted me when the elevator door of the downtown Seattle building slid open on her floor, the manila envelope containing the final draft of our contract crisp in my hand, its weight a reminder of what I was about to sign up for.
I strode to the opaque glass door withLuminaemblazoned onto it and ground my teeth. She’d even incorporated a subtleconstellation in the shape of a bouquet. Hand-drawn. By her. I recognized the style.
It was still as endearingly dreadful as it was when we were kids. And it felt like mockery.
Had she chosen the name as some kind of homage to what we once had? Or had she simply taken one more thing from me, repurposing our private moments into her corporate identity without a second thought?
