{Chapter 17} The Morning After~
The first thing I noticed was the light.
It came through the curtains in long, warm strips, landing across the bed at an angle that told me it was well past morning.
I lay still for a moment, blinking at the ceiling, letting the world come back to me slowly.
That was when I smelt it.
Coffee.
I turned my head.
On the nightstand, beside my phone, sat a white mug. Steam still curling from the top, which meant it hadn't been there long.
Beside it was a small folded piece of paper, torn neatly from the notepad I kept in my desk drawer.
I reached for the note first.
Had to go handle something urgent. Didn't want to wake you.
You looked too cute and peaceful.
Here's my number. Call me if you need anything.
– 🫶🏾L
I sat with the note in my hands for a long moment.
Then I set it down carefully on the nightstand, picked up the mug, and took a slow sip.
It was exactly how I liked it. Not too sweet. A little strong. Like she'd remembered every single detail.
I sat there with my knees pulled to my chest, the warm mug between my palms, and let myself feel it. Not think
it.
Just feel it. All of it.
The ache. The relief. The terrifying, overwhelming tenderness of waking up to handwriting I'd memorized from a single letter and spent four years trying to forget.
Then I set the mug down, got out of bed, and got to work.
———————
I stripped the sheets first.
Not to erase anything. Just because my hands needed something to do while the rest of me figured out how to exist in a body that still remembered every single thing from last night.
I bundled the sheets with the rest of the laundry and loaded the machine. Wiped down the kitchen counter. Washed both mugs.
Swept the floors, mopped them, opened the windows to let the afternoon air through.
By the time I was done the apartment smelled like detergent and fresh air, and my chest felt marginally less like it was sitting on top of a fault line.
I cooked next. Rice, a simple stir-fry, nothing that required too much thought. I ate standing at the counter, looking out at the city, not thinking about anything in particular.
Or trying not to.
I showered after, changed into something comfortable, made a second coffee, and sat down at my desk.
Work. That was what I needed.
I opened my laptop and pulled up the portfolio files.
Everything was still there — every design, every material note, every carefully constructed argument for why this collection deserved to exist.
I went through it all methodically, tightening the language, sharpening the presentation, reordering two sections so the narrative arc built more cleanly.
When I was finally satisfied I sent everything to print, then retrieved the pages in careful stacks and began assembling them exactly as they needed to be.
I was sliding the last page into its sleeve when my phone rang.
Unknown number.
I almost ignored it. I'd been letting unknown numbers go to voicemail all week — journalists mostly, occasionally someone dispatched by my father without warning.
Neither felt worth stopping for right now.
But something made me look at it again. Local area code. The number had a clean, direct format. Not press. Not a law firm.
I picked up.
"Kamaya Chantasiri."
"Miss Chantasiri."
The voice was professional, measured, warm without being familiar. Female, I guessed late twenties, early thirties.
"I hope I haven't caught you at a bad time. My name is Noon. I'm calling on behalf of my employer."
"Who is your employer?" I asked.
"His name is Reign Kittisak. He's the current head of Sak Gold Cooperation."
I knew the name. Everyone in this industry knew the name. Kittisak Gold was one of the largest privately held gold mining operations in the country, possibly in the region.
Old money — or rather, old wealth— built over decades by a patriarch who had died recently and left everything to a grandson barely older than I was.
"I see," I said carefully. "What does Mr.Kittisak want with me?"
"He became aware of your work recently," Noon continued, "specifically the concept you've been developing for the TLEA final round. He was quite taken with what he heard and would very much like to meet with you in person."
"Who told him about it?"
A brief pause.
"I'm afraid that person asked to remain anonymous. They were quite insistent about it."
I was quiet for a moment. The list of people who knew the details of my concept well enough to describe it to someone like Reign Kittisak was not long. I filed the question away for later.
"What kind of meeting?" I asked.
"A conversation first. Mr. Kittisak prefers to speak directly before anything else. If the discussion goes well, he'll share more about what he has in mind."
"When?"
"Tomorrow evening. Seven o'clock. He's staying at The Athenee. There's a private dining room on the upper floor —I will send you the details to this number once we're done."
"Alright," I said. "I'll be there, thank you."
"You're welcome Miss Chantasiri."
The call ended.
I set my phone down and sat very still for a moment.
Then I picked up the portfolio, checked it once more from front to back, straightened a page that was sitting a fraction too high, and closed it.
I didn't know what Reign Kittisak wanted exactly, or who had sent him my way, or what any of it would amount to.
But I would be ready
Tomorrow at seven.
I turned back to my desk and kept working.