Dirty Little Secret (GxG)

Season 2, Chapter 16

Sandra's POV

I can't stop replaying Dria's words in my head. Now you figure out what kind of storm you want to be, Sandra. What does that even mean? Is it a yes? Is it a no? How can someone be so smart and yet so cryptic? It's infuriating.

I am the president of D Empire, for crying out loud. I negotiate billion-dollar deals, handle ruthless competitors, and navigate the chaotic world of corporate politics like I was born for it. But when it comes to this woman, Dria, she reduces me to a bumbling idiot. A simple sentence from her has me spinning in circles.

I storm out of the office (pun intended), trying to hold on to my dignity as I get into my car. My driver doesn't say a word, thank goodness, because I'm fuming. Fuming not at Dria, but at myself. How did I get myself into this situation? Why does this woman, with her lawyerly coolness and perfectly-arched eyebrow, turn me into a lovesick fool who can't even comprehend a simple metaphor?

I grip the steering wheel as we pull away from D Empire. She said I'm a storm. Okay, fine, I get that. I can be a whirlwind—people have called me cold, demanding, and yes, chaotic. But what kind of storm am I supposed to be? Am I supposed to be a calm breeze or a hurricane? Or maybe a typhoon that sweeps her off her feet again, this time without screwing things up?

I spend the whole ride home gnawing on that question. By the time I arrive at my apartment, I'm practically grinding my teeth. I fling the door open and make a beeline for my one and only source of true, unconditional love—Monmon, my 14-year-old cat.

"Monmon!" I call out, my voice a mix of desperation and irritation. "Where are you, baby?"

Monmon, of course, doesn't bother responding immediately. She's a cat, after all, and has mastered the art of indifference. When she finally saunters into the living room, she gives me a look that says, Why are you yelling? I'm busy napping. I scoff, but my mood softens as she curls up next to me on the couch.

"Monmon, do you get it? What kind of storm am I supposed to be?" I ask, as if my cat has suddenly developed the ability to interpret philosophical riddles.

Monmon's response is to slowly blink at me before stretching out and plopping her head on my lap. I scratch behind her ears, sighing. "I mean, I can't be a tornado again, right? I already messed everything up ten years ago by being too intense, hiding her, pushing her away. I can't just blow into her life again and expect things to go my way."

Monmon lets out a tiny meow, as if agreeing with my self-deprecation. "Right? I need to be careful this time. Careful but not passive. Strong but not overwhelming." I'm rambling now, but the more I talk, the more sense it starts to make. Dria didn't give me a straightforward answer because she doesn't want me to rush in like I did before. She's telling me to figure out how to balance the storm that I am—intensity with patience, passion with caution.

Suddenly, Monmon bats at a nearby pen with her paw, knocking it off the coffee table. I watch as it clatters to the floor, and it hits me.

"Oh, my God," I murmur, staring at the pen like it just revealed the secrets of the universe. "That's it, Monmon! Dria doesn't want me to be a hurricane that wrecks everything in its path. She wants me to be the kind of storm that knows when to be strong and when to be gentle."

Monmon blinks at me again, unimpressed with my newfound revelation, but I'm on a roll now. "It's about control. She doesn't want the chaos. She doesn't want the uncertainty. She wants to know that I'm stable, reliable—that I'm not going to throw her life into disarray again like I did before."

I sit up straighter, a sense of clarity washing over me. "She's telling me that if I want her back, I need to figure out how to be a storm she can trust. One that won't blow everything apart, but instead, maybe... maybe even protect her."