The Meeting

The sound of polished shoes echoed across the factory floor as Arsen Zverev Valerievich walked through the main hall of Seraphina Textiles. Workers glanced up nervously, then quickly bent back to their tasks. His presence was impossible to ignore—tall, sharp, and commanding in his black suit.

Managers surrounded him, spilling numbers and reports, but Arsen barely listened. His cold eyes searched the room, looking for only one thing.

And then, he saw her.

At the far end, standing by a table of folded garments, was Hillary Seraphina. Her blouse and skirt were simple, her chestnut hair tied neatly back, but to Arsen, she shone brighter than anyone else there. She wasn’t trying to impress. She wasn’t trying at all. Yet, he couldn’t look away.

He slowed his steps, ignoring the managers’ chatter. Hillary was pointing out details on fabric samples, her voice calm and certain. Even in such an ordinary moment, there was something graceful about her.

“Mr. Valerievich?” a manager asked, holding up a report.

“Later,” Arsen replied coldly, eyes still locked on Hillary.

At last, she turned. Their eyes met across the room. For a heartbeat, neither moved. Hillary’s lips parted slightly in surprise before she gave him a polite, cautious smile. She bowed her head lightly in respect.

That small gesture struck him more deeply than he expected. No fear, no false charm—just quiet acknowledgment.

Arsen walked toward her, each step measured. Hillary straightened, her hands folding in front of her, unsure what to expect. When he stopped before her, the air felt heavy, as if the whole room was holding its breath.

“Your name,” he said simply.

She hesitated, then answered, “Hillary Seraphina.”

Arsen repeated it under his breath, testing it. “Hillary.” The way he spoke it made her feel as though her name already belonged to him.

“You work here?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” she said softly. “I handle quality checks and team coordination.”

He studied her silently, his piercing gaze making her shift under the weight of it. Then, to her surprise, he said, “You do it well.”

Hillary blinked, caught off guard by the unexpected compliment. “Thank you, sir,” she replied carefully.

Silence stretched between them, but neither looked away. Around them, the workers pretended to stay busy, though it was clear everyone was listening.

Arsen leaned slightly closer, his voice dropping so only she could hear. “Do you remember me?”

Hillary’s chest tightened. She did remember. That night at the corporate dinner, when his gaze had found hers, she had quickly looked away, pretending not to notice. She never imagined he had noticed her in return.

“I… yes,” she admitted softly.

The faintest curve touched Arsen’s lips—a smile, but one that held no warmth. Only satisfaction.

“Good,” he murmured.

A manager hurried forward again, desperate to regain Arsen’s attention. “Mr. Valerievich, if you’d like—”

“Later,” Arsen cut him off coldly, never breaking eye contact with Hillary.

It was clear now: he hadn’t come here for numbers or fabrics. He had come here for her.

And Hillary, under the weight of his gaze, felt it in her bones.

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