16. Nina #2
The receptionist nods as she listens to the phone and then glances at me once more before saying, “Yes, ma’am. I’ll bring her up.” She hangs up and says to me, “Follow me.”
I limp behind her and follow her into the elevator, through a hallway, and to the conference room. She nods toward the closed door and motions that I should enter. So, with a deep breath, I enter.
The room is all white and sleek. There’s a huge painting of the shield and S logo on the back wall, floor-to-ceiling windows on the right, and windows facing the hallway on the left.
A massive amount of food fills the table, and then there’s Evren. Evren who’s pacing the room, hair disheveled as if he’s been running his hands through it constantly. He has a phone glued to his ear, and he snaps, “She’s thirty minutes late. Something must’ve?—”
The door clicking shut causes him to spin around .
“She’s here,” he says into the phone. “Update you soon.” He tosses his phone onto the table and he’s in front of me the next instant, running his hands over my arms, my shoulders, as if he’s terrified that I'll disappear.
“What happened?” His gaze is frantic, searching every inch of me like he's expecting to find something broken. “Where have you been? Are you hurt?”
“I’m fine, but I’m so sorry I’m late. My car died, and I forgot my phone at home.”
“I was terrified someone kidnapped you. I was about to send Nate’s team out to look for you.”
The weight of his words hits me like a punch—he’s right. It could have happened. What the hell was I thinking? My knees buckle beneath me, and before I can even process it, his arms tighten around me, steadying me. He doesn’t let go, just guides me into a nearby chair like I’m something fragile.
“Oh my God,” I whisper, breathless, pressing a hand to my forehead. “I didn’t realize… I’m so stupid. I didn’t think—” The words stick in my throat, the weight of what could’ve happened sinking in.
“You need to take your safety seriously,” he says, voice low. The worry in his gaze is unmistakable. His lips press into a thin line, as if he’s holding back something sharper, and I’m grateful for that small mercy.
“I know,” I murmur, the weight of it sinking in. “I’m just…not used to living like this.”
He nods once, tightly, still too on edge to relax. “ Where did you leave your car? I’ll get it to the repair shop. Wait—how did you even get here?”
“I walked.”
His eyes flash with something unreadable, but he doesn’t say anything.
Instead, he crosses to the fridge, grabs a bottle of water, and twists the cap off before pressing it into my hands.
I tell him where the car is and take a long gulp, the cool water doing little to settle the tightness in my chest.
“Thank you,” I say.
“Do you need a first aid kit?” He glances briefly to my feet and his lips flatten.
I tuck my feet under my chair and say, “I’ll be fine.”
Tsk ing, he spins my rolly chair until I’m facing him and sinks to his knees.
Without a word, he takes my right foot gently in his hands, his touch careful, as though he’s afraid of causing more pain.
Unbuckling my high heel, I wince when he removes it.
He inspects my foot before leaving for a moment and returning with a warm cloth, bandages, and an ointment.
I expect him to toss them my way, but instead, he kneels back down, carefully cleaning the dirt and blood from my foot.
His thumb brushes over the broken skin, so tenderly that I nearly flinch—not from the pain, but from the unfamiliarity of it.
The whole time, he doesn’t ask for anything. Doesn’t make it about him.
I can’t remember a single time Mom looked at me with anything but annoyance when I got hurt.
No bandages. No soothing words. Her solution was to tell me to toughen up, that I was an inconvenience for even needing help.
If I limped, she acted like it was a performance for attention—or worse, she’d use it to her advantage, spinning some sob story to guilt someone into giving her money.
But him? He’s not huffing, not making me feel like I’m a burden, even though he’s kneeling on pants that cost more than everything I own combined. Even though he’s a thousand times more important than my scraped feet. He just takes care of me. It’s so simple. So…unexpected.
As I watch him, a warmth I can’t quite name spreads through me.
Maybe it’s the way he frowns in concentration as he unwraps the bandage, or how his fingers linger just long enough to make me feel seen.
For the first time, I start to wonder if this is what love really is—not grand gestures or declarations, but someone willing to stay, to fix the little things you don’t even think deserve fixing.
Someone who sees your pain, even when you’re too used to hiding it.
“Thank you,” I whisper when he finishes.
“I’m this close”—he pinches his thumb and pointer finger together—“to buying you something that straps onto your body so that you’ll have your phone on you at all times.”
“Sounds kinky.” I grin, trying to lighten up the somber mood he’s in.
But he doesn’t laugh. Instead, he squeezes my calves. “ Don’t joke, not about this. Can we please find a solution? Together?”
“Sorry…” I grab his hands in mine, relieved he’s asking me for my input and not making the decision for me without my consent. He’s following through on his promise to include me in decisions, and that opens my heart to him even more. “Can I have security put back on me?”
“You don’t mind?”
I shake my head. “I need it. I don’t want to worry you again or put myself in danger.”
“Done.” He stands and sits in the chair next to me. “Are you hungry?”
I take in the spread that looks like he bought everything from the restaurant. “Starving, but you ordered too much.”
“Whatever is left will be offered to the staff working today.”
“Okay,” I say quietly, relieved it’s not going to be wasted.
“Shall I give you a bit of everything to try?”
I nod, and he does just that. I grin when he runs out of space on the plate and grabs another one to put a small spoonful of everything on it.
Once we both eat, he clears his throat and says, “I wanted to show you around the facility here, but since you’re injured, I can show you a presentation instead? Or do you prefer to go home?”
“I didn’t come all the way here for nothing. Show me this presentation of yours. ”
He grins before turning to the TV screen, connecting his laptop. “I had this whole presentation prepared, all about how partnering with me on the apparel line would help fund improvements for the team. But then I realized…that’s not what would sway you.”
With a click, the screen fills with images—logos and photos of at least ten local organizations in Skyrise, from food banks to community centers and homeless shelters.
“So, I asked myself, what do you care about?” His gaze meets mine, voice soft but steady.
“And that part was obvious. I don’t broadcast this, but I make sure a good percentage of the team’s profits goes back into the community.
Last year alone, I donated almost ten million dollars.
Every cent I can spare goes into helping the people who need it most. And as for the rest?
It all goes back into the team. I don’t take a salary for myself. ”
“But why put it all back into the team?”
“To help them achieve success, but I’m not talking about the coaching staff and the players who are already paid millions.
No, a lot of the money goes towards improving the wages of everyone working here, from the janitors to the assistants.
I grew up understanding that a single paycheck could make or break a family’s future.
And Harold’s pay structure? It wasn’t just unfair—it was impossible for someone to live on.
I’ve been working to fix that since day one. ”
I’m ashamed I ever lumped Evren into the same group as my father. Evren doesn’t seek accolades or recognition for his generosity. It’s all hidden, quietly done, because it’s simply the right thing to do.
“I see what you’re doing,” I say.
“I’m not doing anything,” he says innocently.
I roll my eyes. “I get that you’re not a sharky businessman.”
“You do?” he asks.
“Yeah, and I’m willing to accept your offer.”
His jaw drops before he snaps it shut. “And what are your terms?”
“Complete creative control, a massive salary to reflect my genius, and some sort of protection, so, in case we don’t work out, I don’t lose this job.”
“Done.”
“And,” I add, “I don’t want my name or face anywhere attached to this.”
“Because of your mom?”
I nod. “It’s the only way this can happen.”
“Okay,” he says easily, as if he understands everything I’m not saying, which should be annoying, but it’s a relief.
“Would you be open to presenting your design ideas, ideally with samples, to Glam Pop? We’d put an NDA in place to make sure they can’t tell anyone about the designs or about you, the designer, to protect you. ”
“Isn’t presenting your area of expertise?”
“It is, but I believe your passion and expertise are what’s needed to get them to sign on.”
“But I don’t want to mess it up because I’m not good at presenting. ”
“You won’t mess anything up,” he says. “Zeki and I will be there to make sure it’ll all go well, and we’ll answer any questions that arise. Not only that, but I’ll help you make the presentation. I promise it’ll be okay.”
“Okay,” I say. “I’ll do it.” The words are a simple agreement, but it’s more than that. I trust Evren to help me through this whole thing. I’m not used to relying on anyone but myself, but with Evren? He makes it easy to rely on him, even if I’m scared that I’ll mess it all up.
“Do you feel up to discussing some design ideas now?” he asks.
“Sure.” I stand and walk on bare feet to the whiteboard. “Let’s start with what kind of garments we need.”
We spend the next few hours working on building a new line. Even if he doesn’t know a single thing about design, his questions are astute, thoughtful. The hours fly by, and it’s more fun than I thought possible.
At six o’clock, he leans back into his chair and stretches his neck from side to side. “You’re really good at this.”
“So are you.”
Evren’s phone rings, and he glances at the screen. “I need to grab this. It’ll only be a few minutes, and then I can take us home.”
Home. Together. Why does that sound so good?
I watch him pace outside the room, the edges of his lips pulling down every time he passes the window next to me. When he’s finished his call, he’s more subdued and asks, “Ready?”
“Sure.”
We walk to the car in silence.
We drive home in silence. And that silence turns into a crackling kind of tension.
When we pull into the driveway, Evren breaks it by saying, “I’m going to go for a swim.”
I glance at him in surprise. He’s more of a swim-at-ten-at-night kind of guy. But it’s not even seven, and he’s going now?
My body is a ball of pain after that walk, but there’s something bothering him, ever since the phone call, and I don’t want him to be alone right now.
“Can I join you?” I blurt out.
“You don’t even have to ask.”