Mornings and Meetings
The Next Morning
Roselier's Flat – Kitchen
The sun was just beginning to slip through the cracks of the old blinds, casting slanted gold across the tile floor. The kitchen smelled faintly of toast and chocolate jam. Somewhere between humming along to an old Billie Holiday tune playing low on her phone and buttering a sandwich, YN found her rhythm.
Her hair was pulled into a loose bun, sleeves rolled to her elbows, and a worn apron tied around her waist. The coffee was brewing. Ben’s lunchbox sat open on the counter, half-filled with little containers: fruit slices, a cheese stick, and the last chocolate chip granola bar in the box.
She popped the sandwich into a ziplock, then added a smiley face post-it to the lid:
"You got this, champ! Love you – Mommy"
Behind her, chaos.
“I can’t go to school like this!!” Ben shouted from the bedroom.
YN blinked. “Is something on fire?”
“No, but it’s worse!”
She turned off the burner and called out as she wiped her hands, amused. “Define worse, sweetheart.”
Ben came barrelling into the kitchen, a blur of curls and indignation. He was fully dressed—well, mostly. His little hoodie was half-zipped and one sock was neon green while the other had tiny sharks on it.
“Look at my feet!” he wailed, holding them up like they were a tragedy.
YN bit back a laugh. “Wow. I don’t think the world’s ready for this level of rebellion.”
Ben pouted, crossing his arms. “I can’t match my socks. The dryer ate the other ones again.”
“Well, dryers are notorious for that,” she said with mock seriousness, crouching down to fix his hoodie. “But I think it adds character.”
“I don’t want character! I want the cool blue socks!”
YN pulled him into a quick hug before he could spiral further. “Hey, you’re still the coolest kid in the world. No sock can stop that.”
Ben huffed into her shoulder, then mumbled, “Are you sure?”
“Positive. Besides—” she gave his nose a gentle boop—“I think the shark one makes you faster.”
He grinned at that, because of course it did.
By the time she zipped up his backpack and slung her own tote over her shoulder, Ben had fully recovered. He was now pretending to be a velociraptor, clicking his fingers like claws while hopping around the couch.
YN grabbed both their lunches, then paused in the doorway to look back at their little flat.
Still cluttered. Still imperfect.
But for this one quiet second, it felt okay.
“Alright, dino boy. You ready to take on the world?”
Ben nodded fiercely. “As long as it doesn’t eat socks.”
They headed out the door, laughter trailing after them down the hall.
And somewhere high above the city—
A CEO in a white pressed shirt was already watching the clock.
Waiting.
Hearth Headquarters
43rd Floor – 8:49 AM
The lift dinged with a quiet chime, and YN stepped out like a breath of fresh air wrapped in silk.
Her heels tapped gently against the polished tile, not rushed—but not slow either. She wore a pale blush pencil skirt that hugged just enough to turn a few heads, paired with a white blouse tucked neatly at the waist, the satin catching the light every time she moved. Her hair fell in soft waves around her shoulders, freshly brushed, a faint sheen of lip gloss catching the corners of her smile.
Not provocative. Not overdone.
But striking. Feminine in a way that demanded grace, not apology.
A few employees walking past did a double take. One nearly spilled his coffee. Another quickly straightened their posture. YN didn’t notice—or pretended not to. She had her tote slung on one shoulder and Ben’s empty lunchbox tucked into the side, just slightly peeking out.
She paused near the reception, trying not to look like she was adjusting her blouse for the fourth time that morning. She inhaled.
You’ve done harder things. You can do this.
Before she could even ask for directions, the receptionist blinked at her and said, “Ms. Arlecchino’s expecting you. She’s in the strategy lounge. Down the left corridor, last door.”
YN nodded, nerves fluttering in her chest again like birds too big for their cage. “Thank you.”
Strategy Lounge – 8:51 AM
Inside the glass-walled room, Arlecchino stood by a table littered with files and sleek monitors, her silhouette lit by the morning sun bleeding in through the tall windows.
She’d discarded her jacket, sleeves rolled up neatly to her elbows, exposing the strong line of her forearms as she leaned over a set of campaign documents. Her hair, as always, was perfectly in place, and a second coffee cup—untouched—rested beside the first near the corner of the table.
The moment YN walked in, Arlecchino looked up.
And paused.
There was nothing in her expression. Nothing obvious, anyway. But her gaze lingered.
Not at the face. Not at the heels.
At the whole. The deliberate way YN moved. The softness that draped over her spine like silk armor. The kind of beauty that didn’t come from wealth or effort—but survival. From a woman who had made herself lovely despite life.
“I hope I’m not late,” YN said, voice gentle but not unsure.
Arlecchino straightened slowly, her gaze still level. “You’re early.”
“I thought it’d be better than being rushed,” YN added with a little smile, stepping closer. “Helps with the nerves.”
She placed her tote beside a chair and waited for instructions, feeling the subtle weight of the CEO’s eyes on her. Not unkind. Not leering.
Just.. observant.
“Sit,” Arlecchino said at last, motioning toward the open seat beside her. “We’ll go over the current campaign goals and assess where your input fits in.”
YN sat carefully, smoothing her skirt and crossing her ankles. Her perfume was soft—floral, with something warmer underneath. Arlecchino caught it when the air shifted.
She slid a folder over, watching her.
“You dress like someone who knows what attention means,” Arlecchino said, tone calm. “But also like someone who doesn’t owe it to anyone.”
YN’s eyes widened slightly. “I—I wasn’t trying to—”
“It’s not a criticism,” Arlecchino cut in, then added after a pause, “It’s rare. Most people here either try too hard.. or not at all.”
YN blinked, then let out a small breath. “Well. Thank you, I think.”
That earned the smallest twitch at the corner of Arlecchino’s mouth.
“Don’t let anyone here get to you. This floor is full of insecure men in expensive suits. You’ll make them nervous just by walking.”
YN glanced down at her notes, then smiled quietly. “Good.”
Another beat of silence.
Arlecchino tapped her pen once, then turned back to the documents. “Let’s get to work.”
And just like that, the tension snapped into focus—like a match struck quietly in the dark.
But beneath it?
A flicker of something else.
Not warmth.
Curiosity.