Cassie had barely set down her paintbrush when her phone vibrated across the edge of her worktable, dangerously close to knocking over her coffee mug. She lunged for it, breath caught between hope and dread. Grant. It had been two days since she last heard from him, an eternity when the man you’re trying not to fall for keeps disappearing behind business meetings and private jets.

"Flying to Geneva. Board wants a face-to-face." That had been his last message.

No emojis. No explanation. No warmth.

And now, as she stared at her phone screen, all it read was: No New Messages.

Cassie exhaled slowly and glanced around her confined studio apartment. It was filled with the smell of linseed oil, fresh canvas, and an uneasy kind of longing. She hated this. The waiting. The wondering. The awkward dance of not knowing if she meant something or was just another artistic phase in Grant Kingston’s portfolio.

A knock on the door jolted her.

She wasn’t expecting anyone.

When she opened it, sunlight and chaos spilled in. Mia, her best friend and part-time modeling muse, breezed in with two iced coffees, a shopping bag, and her usual dramatic flair.

“You look like you haven’t slept,” Mia said, handing over a drink. “Don’t tell me you’re still obsessing over Mr. Billion-Dollar Icebox.”

Cassie gave a half-smile. “He’s not cold.”

“No? Then why hasn’t he texted? Or called? Or, I don’t know, acted like a human being who likes someone?”

Cassie set down her coffee and flopped into the worn out armchair near the window. “He’s busy. It’s... complicated.”

“It’s always complicated with men who treat their calendars like war zones,” Mia muttered, pulling out a cropped leather jacket from the shopping bag. “Try this on. If he ghosts you, at least you’ll look hot crying about it.”

Cassie laughed; a real one this time. And for a moment, the ache in her chest softened. She wasn’t in love. Not yet. But she was close. Dangerously close. And that scared her more than being alone ever had.

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Meanwhile, across the Atlantic, Grant stood before a gleaming conference table in Geneva, surrounded by executives, lawyers, and vultures who pretended to be both. His tie was perfectly knotted, his voice calm and decisive, but his mind? It was miles away. Back in Brooklyn. Back in that cluttered studio where a woman with wild eyes and smarter comebacks had made him feel something he hadn’t in years.

“Kingston, your thoughts on the proposed merger timeline?” someone asked.

He blinked. “Delay it. Indefinitely.”

A rustle of murmurs spread around the table. Grant didn’t care. He rarely explained his decisions, and no one dared press him, not twice.

But inside, the pressure was building.

He had always prided himself on keeping business and personal separate. With Cassie, that line blurred fast. Too fast. She made him feel unsteady. Human. He hated it. And yet, he couldn’t stop thinking about her.

Later that night, alone in his suite overlooking the lake, Grant finally opened his phone. No new messages from her either. Not even a “miss you.” Not even a passive-aggressive meme like she used to send during late-night banter.

Good. That’s good. She’s not waiting.

But somehow, that stung even more.

He started typing:

"Cass, I—"

Then stopped.

Backspaced.

Typed again:

"Still in Geneva. Things are a mess. I’ll call when I can."

Sent.

He threw the phone onto the couch and poured himself a drink.

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Back in Brooklyn, Cassie read the message three times. She didn’t know whether to smile or scream.

Mia raised an eyebrow. “That from the emotionally constipated billionaire?”

Cassie nodded. “He says he’ll call.”

“Cool. So he knows what phones are now. Progress.”

But Cassie said nothing. She turned to her canvas instead. It was a half-finished painting of a skyline-abstract, layered, jagged. Just like the way she felt.

Days turned into a week.

They spoke once...a strained, 7 minute call filled with awkward silences and interruptions. Grant seemed… different. Guarded again. Cassie couldn’t tell if it was distance or disinterest.

By the second week, she stopped checking her phone.

And by the third, she got a new commission - an international art festival in Paris. A big deal. A once-in-a-lifetime deal. She didn’t hesitate.

She booked her flight. Packed her paints. And told herself that if he wanted her in his life, he knew where to find her.

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Across the world, Grant sat in silence as Elle, briefed him on upcoming appointments.

“Also,” Elle said cautiously, “the Hartley girl… she’s on the Paris roster. Big show.”

Grant didn’t flinch, but his grip tightened around his pen.

“Noted,” he said coolly.

Elle studied him. “You should talk to her.”

He looked up. “It’s not the right time.”

Elle raised an eyebrow but said nothing. She knew better than to argue, but she also knew Grant wasn’t nearly as unaffected as he pretended to be.

That night, he stared at a blank screen. Then opened a tab.

Flight to Paris. One seat. First class. No return date.

He didn’t book it. Not yet.

But he left the window open.

Just in case.