Painted

Chapter 5

Rebecca Armstrong pushed open the heavy glass door to her office and stepped inside, feeling the cold, sterile air hit her like a wave. The scent of fresh coffee mixed with the faint musky smell of old paper from the blueprints strewn across her desk. It was early, and the office was quiet, the silence a welcome reprieve after the whirlwind of meetings the past few days. She tossed her bag onto the couch with more force than necessary, and for a moment, just stood there, letting the quiet settle around her.

Her mind was still buzzing from last night. From her time spent with Sarocha.

Sarocha.

Rebecca hadn’t meant for it to happen, hadn't planned on slipping into a space where things blurred so easily between desire and… something else. The impromptu drinks had been an excuse, a casual evening that ended up carrying an unexpected weight. Sarocha’s presence, the way she spoke with such quiet conviction, the way her fingers brushed hers in passing—it had been too much, too quickly.

The attraction was undeniable. Sarocha had a way about her that drew Rebecca in, a magnetism that was impossible to ignore. It was the confidence, the quiet passion in her voice when she spoke about art, the way her eyes lit up when she shared her thoughts. It was intoxicating, and Rebecca had found herself pulled deeper than she cared to admit.

But that was the problem, wasn’t it? Rebecca prided herself on maintaining control—on keeping things professional, calculated, and most importantly, fleeting. She couldn’t afford to get caught up in something that complicated. Not with Sarocha, not with anyone. It was just… too much. She had to remember who she was—Rebecca Armstrong, rising architect, not someone prone to getting swept up in emotional entanglements.

Still, the memory of Sarocha lingered in her mind. The brush of their fingers, the way Sarocha’s voice softened when she looked at her. Rebecca had slipped away before the dawn, as though doing so could somehow erase the tension that had built up between them, the electric pull that had made it so hard to leave.

"Focus," Rebecca muttered to herself, willing her thoughts to stay on the blueprints that lay waiting on her desk.

Her assistant’s voice interrupted the silence, though it sounded muffled through the closed door. “Ms. Armstrong, your next meeting is about to start. Shall I send them in?”

Rebecca stood up abruptly, adjusting the cuffs of her blouse and forcing a smile. “Yes, please. Send them in.”

The meeting felt like a blur. Plans for a new building project. Numbers. Estimates. Calculations. But Rebecca’s mind kept slipping back to last night, to the way Sarocha’s presence had filled the room, the way she had looked at her like she saw something more than just an architect—something deeper, something more vulnerable. It made her uneasy.

Rebecca was used to being in control, to having everything within her grasp. She didn’t do complicated. She didn’t do emotional. But that night with Sarocha… that had shaken her in ways she hadn’t expected.

As soon as the meeting ended, Rebecca excused herself, her mind still whirling. She moved quickly down the hallway, eager to get back to her office, to something solid, something that didn’t carry the same emotional weight. When she opened the door, the sunlight poured in, bathing the room in soft light. And there it was, lying on her desk—a long, slim white box.

Her heart skipped a beat.

Rebecca froze, her pulse quickening before she even touched it. She knew what it was, who it was from. Her breath caught as she reached for it, her fingers trembling just slightly as she lifted the lid.

Inside, nestled in white tissue paper, was a single red rose. The petals were deep, almost velvet in their richness, daring her to ignore its meaning. Rebecca inhaled sharply, the scent of the flower filling her lungs, and for a moment, she felt as though she couldn’t breathe. It wasn’t a grand gesture—no bouquet of flowers, no dramatic proclamation. Just one rose. A single, intimate offering.