The Things I Know About Her
Country: Aurivelle
City: Auremont
Grayson
The first stop was Hawthorne Real Estate and Development.
Seven forty-five a.m.
Vivienne was already at her station when I arrived…which was the only acceptable state of affairs, because Vivienne had never once been late in five years, and I had stopped being impressed by that roughly four years and eleven months ago.
“Good morning,” she said, already standing, and moving.
“Morning.”
She fell into step beside me immediately.
“Real estate first,” she said. “Velmoor development review, Auremont South acquisition update, and the infrastructure brief from city planning.”
“How long?”
“Two hours if the acquisition team has their numbers ready. Three if they don’t.”
“Tell them to have their numbers ready.”
“Already done.”
Of course it was.
The review took two hours and twelve minutes.
Velmoor was on schedule.
Auremont South had a complication…a third-party bidder had entered within the last seventy-two hours.
I listened.
Asked three questions.
I made two decisions.
The complication no longer existed by the time I left the room.
Vivienne noted everything.
We moved to Finance and Investment.
Finance was quieter than Real Estate.
It always was.
Money moved differently than property.
Less visibly.
More permanently.
The investment review lasted ninety minutes.
One fund restructure approved.
One international advisory engagement confirmed.
One decision deferred pending further data.
Vivienne handed me the summary in the elevator.
“You have a three o’clock meeting at Technology and Innovation.”
“Move it to two.”
She typed without looking up.
“Done.”
Technology and Innovation was the last stop.
My floor.
My office.
The one that felt most like the inside of my mind…precise, forward-facing, no excess.
The two o’clock briefing was on a fintech acquisition I had tracked for six weeks.
The numbers had shifted in our favour.
I gave approval.
The room emptied.
Vivienne gathered her files.
“Anything else before the end of day?”
“No. You’re dismissed.”
She nodded once and left.
I left the headquarters at half past five.
Made one stop.
The patisserie three streets over.
I knew what I was buying before I entered.
Two almond croissants.
Two chocolate éclairs.
Then, because I knew her, I added other things.
Something savoury.
Something light.
The kind of food that could be eaten standing up beside a design board by someone too focused to notice hunger.
I had learned this about Alvara.
I had learned many things.
The atelier was still fully lit when I arrived.
I had not heard from her since this morning.
A brief message at nine.
“Busy day. Lumière prep”.
Then nothing.
Which meant she was buried in work exactly as expected.
I walked in.
Seren looked up.
“Mr. Hawthorne.”
“Where is she?”
“Creative floor.”
Of course.
“She hasn’t eaten properly since lunch,” Seren added.
“I know.”
I lifted the bag slightly.
“She’s going to tell you she isn’t hungry.”
“I know.”
“And then eat everything.”
“I know.”
Seren gave one satisfied nod.
“Go ahead.”
I found her at the central worktable.
Fabric swatches everywhere.
Sketches.
Layout boards for tomorrow’s feature.
She was comparing two swatches side by side, completely absorbed.
She hadn’t heard me enter.
So I stood there for a moment.
Watching her.
The stillness of someone doing exactly what they were meant to do.
Then she looked up.
Saw me.
Her face softened.
“You’re here.”
“I’m here.”
I crossed to her and placed the bag on the table.
“Almond croissants,” I said. “Chocolate éclairs. And other things.”
“Other things?”
“For later. When you’re still here at eight.”
“I won’t be here at eight.”
“We’ll see.”
She pressed her lips together, reached into the bag, took a croissant, and bit into it without breaking focus.
I tried not to enjoy that too much.
Failed.
An hour passed.
She worked.
I stayed.
Sometimes on my phone.
Sometimes watching her move through the floor.
Sometimes helping when asked.
“Does this grouping read as a collection or individual pieces?”
“Collection.”
“Natural lighting or controlled?”
“Natural downstairs. Controlled up here.”
“Why?”
“The boutique needs warmth. This floor needs precision.”
She nodded like she was storing the answer somewhere.
At some point she found the éclair.
She ate it while rearranging a layout board.
No pause.
No ceremony.
Just excellence and pastry.
At half past six she stepped back and studied the final arrangement.
“Done,” she said.
“Good.”
“I’ll call Evander.”
“Don’t.”
She looked at me.
“I’ll take you home.”
“You don’t need to…”
“I know.”
“Tell him not to come.”
She held my gaze for a long moment.
Then sighed lightly.
“Fine.”
She made the call.
Ended it.
“Satisfied?”
“Almost.”
She narrowed her eyes.
“Dinner.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten properly since lunch.”
“I’m fine.”
“Seren briefed me.”
She looked toward the ceiling.
“You and Seren.”
“She cares about you.”
I held her gaze.
“And I do.”
Quietly.
Truthfully.
Something changed in her expression.
Small.
Deep.
“Fine,” she said softly. “Dinner.”
At seven sharp one of my security team arrived with the order.
She stared at the bag.
Then at me.
“When did you arrange that?”
“Before I came upstairs.”
“You ordered dinner before seeing if I was staying?”
“I knew you were staying.”
“You were that certain?”
“You don’t stop until everything is exactly right.”
I unpacked the containers.
Eggs Benedict with smoked salmon on toasted brioche.
Roasted cherry tomatoes.
Fresh fruit.
Juice.
Water.
She blinked.
“Eggs Benedict?”
“Your favourite.”
“That is breakfast.”
“You eat it at dinner too.”
“Seren talks too much.”
“Seren is invaluable.”
She sat.
And she ate.
The atelier was quiet around us.
Evening light across the creative floor.
Tomorrow is waiting in every corner.
“Are you nervous?” I asked.
She considered it honestly.
“No.”
“I was nervous before the showcase. Before the contract. Before launch.” She glanced around the room. “This feels different.”
“It is.”
She looked at me.
“Those were the beginnings,” I said. “Tomorrow is confirmation.”
“Confirmation?”
“The industry knows your name already.” I held her gaze. “Tomorrow they see what built it.”
Something settled in her face.
Soft certainty.
“You always know what to say.”
“Not always.”
“Mostly.”
We looked at each other a moment too long.
Then she glanced down.
Finished the last of the fruit.
“I’m done.”
“Alright.”
She stood and gathered her things.
Then paused.
“Grayson.”
“Yes?”
“Thank you.”
“For what specifically?”
She looked at me directly.
“All of it.”
Simple.
Earnest.
The way she said things she meant.
I took her bag from her hand.
“Always.”
She went still for half a second.
Then smiled.
Small.
Real.
“Take me home,” she said.
“Yes, ma’am.”
And together we walked out into the Auremont night.