Painted

Chapter 10

The office hummed faintly with the sound of distant keyboards and muffled voices, but inside the meeting room, it was all stillness—except for Rebecca’s quiet scribbling. The blueprints spread before her were meticulously detailed, but her pen hovered mid-stroke as a new idea formed. She adjusted her glasses and jotted it down, her movements deliberate.

Her untouched coffee cooled by the second, forgotten in the intensity of her focus. She was so immersed that the knock on the door startled her.

She looked up sharply, only to see Sarocha standing there. Leaning casually against the doorframe, tablet in hand, Sarocha’s usual air of confidence radiated, but Rebecca caught something subtle beneath it—an almost imperceptible uncertainty.

“I thought I’d find you here,” Sarocha said, her voice smooth yet quieter than usual.

Rebecca straightened, masking the sudden tension that coiled through her. There it was again, that magnetic pull between them, as infuriating as it was irresistible. “Was there something you needed?” she asked, her tone clipped out of self-preservation.

Sarocha stepped inside, her heels barely making a sound against the carpet. She set the tablet down on the table and angled it toward Rebecca. “I was reviewing the budget allocations,” she began, her voice perfectly measured. “Your projections for the main stage lighting caught my attention. I think you’re on to something, but there’s a potential cost-saving adjustment I’d like to discuss.”

Rebecca arched a skeptical brow. “Cost-saving? I thought you were all about sparing no expense.”

Sarocha’s lips curved faintly, her eyes glinting with amusement. “Efficient spending isn’t the same as cutting corners. I thought you, of all people, would appreciate that distinction.”

There was a pause—a fleeting moment where Rebecca felt the beginnings of a smile tugging at her lips, but she suppressed it. “Alright. Show me,” she said, gesturing to the chair across from her.

Sarocha took the seat gracefully, angling the tablet between them. As she explained her ideas, Rebecca found herself leaning in despite herself. Sarocha’s points were clear, logical, and—even Rebecca had to admit—brilliant.

Rebecca tilted her head, tapping her pen against her notebook. “You’re right,” she said, grudgingly at first but with growing conviction. “This adjustment could enhance the setup. And it fits the aesthetic we’re aiming for.”

Rebecca didn’t expect the small but genuine smile that spread across Sarocha’s face. It wasn’t the usual smirk or the carefully curated charm she wielded so easily. It was something softer, almost… pleased.

“I’m glad you think so,” Sarocha said, her voice dipping slightly. “I was worried you’d fight me on this one.”

Rebecca’s laugh was soft, unexpected even to herself. “I’m not that stubborn.”

Sarocha raised a perfectly arched brow. “I beg to differ.”

The shared laughter that followed felt oddly intimate, breaking through the tension that had been simmering since the weekend.

As they worked through more details, the dynamic between them shifted. The debates that had once felt fraught now carried a surprising ease, like they’d tapped into some unspoken rhythm.

“Wait, wait,” Rebecca interrupted, pointing at one of Sarocha’s diagrams. “You’re actually suggesting a string quartet over a jazz ensemble for the cocktail hour?”

Sarocha leaned back in her chair, her confidence returning. “Classics never go out of style. And don’t tell me you’ve never been moved by a violin solo.”