CHAPTER 8 #3
"Sure," I said softly, my torso leaning forward, narrowing the distance between us until I could feel the heat radiating off her skin. "I can keep a secret, Helisa... but only if I get to be the one to kiss you this time around. Fair is fair."
Helisa’s eyes flared with a sudden, dark intensity, her grip on my wrist loosening as her gaze dropped to my mouth. "Sure thing," she whispered.
I didn't hesitate. I leaned in across the leather seats, my hand coming up to cup the smooth, tailored fabric of her shoulder as I seized Helisa’s soft lips with mine.
This time, there was no shock—just pure, affectionate heat.
I kissed her deeply, my mouth moving against hers with a slow, confident rhythm, letting her feel the full weight of the attraction I’d been burying since the first day I walked onto the forty-second floor.
The lines between employer and employee were getting blurrier by the minute, dissolving entirely in the sweet, sparkling taste of the champagne on our tongues.
She let out a soft, low sigh against my mouth, her fingers tangling into the fabric of my blouse, pulling me closer until there was no space left between us.
When I finally pulled my lips away, the car was slowing down, the heavy tires crawling to a smooth stop along the curb of West 11th Street.
Helisa and I shared one last, lingering look before she reached for her compact mirror, smoothing down her hair and checking her lipstick with the practiced precision of a woman who lived her life under a microscope.
Minutes later, Marcus opened the heavy door, and we stepped out onto the sidewalk outside Sant Ambroeus.
The air was warm, smelling of roasted garlic, asphalt, and the expensive laundry detergent of the West Village.
Helisa led the way through the heavy glass entrance, her posture instantly snapping back into that rigid, flawless CEO condition that made the restaurant staff sit up straight.
"Welcome back, Ms. Smith," the hostess said, her voice dripping with an elite level of deference as she didn't even check the reservation log. "Your private corner table is ready for you."
We were led through the main dining room, past rows of white linen tables where men in custom suits were talking about hedge funds, into a secluded, sunlit alcove at the very back of the establishment.
The table was tucked behind a beautiful row of potted ficus trees, completely shielding us from the view of the general public.
We sat down across from each other on the green velvet banquette, and the waiter appeared instantly with the menus.
"No more champagne for us today," Helisa instructed, sliding her sunglasses up into her hair as she looked at me with a playful glint in her eyes. "We'll settle for two fresh-squeezed pineapple juices instead, and we're ready to order our entrees immediately. Bring us the chicken alfredo."
"Of course, ma'am," the waiter said, scribbling on his pad before vanishing back into the kitchen.
Once the juices arrived—cold, thick, and incredibly sweet—Helisa rested her elbows on the white tablecloth, leaning her chin into her palms as she looked across at me. The corporate executive was gone again, replaced by the woman who had just held my hands to SZA.
"So, tell me more about yourself, Miley," Helisa asked, her voice carrying a genuine, deep curiosity.
"I've reviewed your HR file, of course, but that only tells me about your GPA and your logistics certifications.
I want to know about your actual life—your college life, growing up, and how you became this force of nature on my floor. "
I took a long sip of my pineapple juice, the cold liquid soothing my throat as I organized my thoughts.
I wanted to be honest with her—the kiss had earned her that much—but as I began to speak, an old, familiar shadow flickered at the edge of my brain.
I started talking about my life as lucidly as possible, painting a vibrant picture of my childhood on 135th Street, the rhythm of the block parties, the sound of the trains, and the fierce independence my mother had drilled into my head since I was a little girl.
But when I reached the college years, my narrative became deliberate, guarded.
I talked about the business seminars, the long hours at the student union, and the scholarship presentation that had caught E-Tech's attention.
I completely skipped out the part about Alicia Gray.
I didn't mention the white twin bed in Room 314, the smell of cocoa butter, or the terrible, yellow crime-scene tape fluttering on the quad after she hanged herself from that ceiling fan.
I didn't tell her how I still couldn't look at a rope without my throat closing up, or how I played Drake's "Over My Dead Body" every single morning just to build an armor against the guilt that threatened to swallow me whole.
Some layers were entirely too deep, entirely too jagged, to show to a billionaire boss over a lunch table in the West Village, no matter how soft her lips were.
Right as I finished detailing my final economics presentation, the waiter returned, placing two massive porcelain bowls of chicken pasta steeped in a rich, steaming alfredo sauce between us. The scent of parmesan, fresh parsley, and garlic instantly filled the small alcove.
"This looks incredible," I said, my mouth practically watering as I picked up my fork, glad for the distraction from my own memories.
"Eat up," Helisa smiled, twirling a portion of fettuccine onto her silver fork. "You earned this meal today. That Tokyo brief was a work of genius."
As we ate, the dynamic shifted seamlessly.
Helisa began talking about herself, and I found myself completely fascinated by the trajectory of her life.
She didn't grow up with a silver spoon; she described her upbringing in a strict, hyper-competitive household where achievement wasn't celebrated—it was simply the baseline requirement for dinner.
She talked about the brutal, exhausting climb through the venture capital firms of the early 2000s, the casual sexism she had to systematically dismantle with metrics and lawsuits, and the isolation that comes with sitting at the absolute top of a global empire.