Anthony's POV
With a sigh, I slipped into the suit. Today was the big meeting—one my dad was basically forcing me to attend.
As I looked at myself in the mirror, I barely recognized the person staring back. My usual curly hair was slicked back and held down by an army of product and hairspray. I looked stiff—so stiff even the concrete in the driveway would disapprove.
I dabbed on some cologne—the one she loved. The one she always complimented me on.
Camila.
She still hadn't responded to my last message. I was just messing around, but... I missed her. Talking to her made everything feel lighter. And now? Silence again.
I needed to find a way back in. Or maybe not. Maybe it was for the best.
My eyes fell on her birthday girf and then little thingd she gave me just because—and I sighed. I remembered how she used to wrap herself around me, kiss my cheek, then smile and nuzzle into my arms.
She was what home felt like. And I'd lost that—because of my own stupidity.
With one final glance in the mirror, I turned away and walked out. I petted Prince as I passed him.
"I'll be back, buddy," I whispered.
Dad hadn't come home, so I'd be going to him. This meeting—some big business deal—was something he wanted me to "experience."
I pulled out of the driveway and drove off around the curve.
And—hell, God, or whatever powers that be—there she was.
Camila.
She was pulling out of her property gate in her blue Toyota Corolla. It fit her perfectly.
She saw me. Gave me a small smile. And drove off.
She smiled at me.
God, she was beautiful. She always was. Always would be.
At least she wasn't ignoring me completely. At least she didn't hate me. At least... she could still smile.
That smile could melt ice caps. Move mountains.
As I drove, my mind spiraled. Were we really over? Did I even deserve that smile?
I pulled into the parking lot of my father's company and sighed. I hated this place—or rather, places like this. It felt like a prison.
I mentally prepared myself for the fake smiles, the strong perfume, and the nauseating stench of two-faced conversations.
Straightening my suit, I stepped out of the car and headed for what I was sure would be the death of me.
Inside, I presented my ID and signed in. A receptionist directed me to the elevator and told me which floor the meeting was on.
Once on the floor, I followed signs to the boardroom.
Inside, nothing exciting was happening—just small talk and chatter.
Dad waved me over. He made a few introductions. None of them stuck.
Sure, I could hold a decent conversation when needed. But these weren't the kind of people I'd ever care to remember.
I overheard them talking about a partner who was running late.
"She's been slipping lately," one man joked.
"Probably her hormones," another said, and the table burst into laughter.
Dad shook his head. "Are your files in order?" he asked, clearly annoyed.
They had to call an assistant to double-check. The meeting was due to start in a minute or two, so everyone began to take their seats and prepare.
Then a familiar voice pulled me out of my thoughts.
"Precela."
Camila's mom.
She was elegant—perfectly put together. Her hair was tied up in a sleek bun, glasses sitting neatly on her nose. She wore a black blouse tucked into a cream skirt, and white heels that clicked with purpose as she walked.
She was giving directions to a worker who had made a mistake. The way she carried herself... she naturally commanded respect.
People greeted her, shook her hand with casual familiarity.
I knew she was a businesswoman—but I hadn't expected this.
She walked over to my dad, shook his hand, and—without drama—fixed his tie.
She glanced at me briefly, her expression unreadable. Said nothing.
They exchanged greetings. Too familiar.
How had I never seen them together before?
A hundred thoughts raced through my mind. My father must have noticed the shift in my expression because he said:
"This is Precela Anderson. She's the head of the company we're planning to merge with. She is..."
My mind went blank.
This gave new meaning to the phrase 'small world.'
And right now, it felt uncomfortably small.
Precela had been my confidant while I was dating Camila.
She'd cooked with me, talked with me, hugged me, given me advice. She'd spent the day with me on the anniversary of my mother's death—because I didn't want to be alone. Camila had a class that day, and I hadn't told her when, exactly, my mom had died.
But Precela was there. She told me I could call her mom if I wanted to. She ruffled my hair and called me pet names.
She was more like family than my actual father.
And I'd ruined that. I'd hurt her daughter. That couldn't be forgiven.
She must hate me.
Her voice broke through my storm of thoughts.
"Oh, so you must be the son Dean told me about."
She extended her hand like we'd never met.
I smiled, took it, and said, "I hope not too much."
I didn't know what I was expecting her to do. But... not this.
She let go of my hand and turned to my father.
"Well, we may as well start the meeting."
I took my seat.
And the meeting began.