When History Repeats Itself

Fault Lines

The C-Suite conference room at Chase Men was already packed when I walked in, having been personally summoned by Daniel Chase.

Apparently, both he and Nick had been "so impressed" with my coordination on the Father Figures campaign—navigating calendars, personalities, and crises like a political handler—that they insisted I join the Silva project planning. "A nod to your resilience," Daniel said in his voice note, like he was awarding a medal.

Honestly? That medal belonged to my mother. Years at Evolve had trained me in the gospel of Seli-I-Will-Make-It-Work-Kerington. Her motto was simple: There has to be a way around this. I'll find it. I'll make it work.

Paba had saved me a seat at the far end of the polished mahogany table. I smoothed my dress, squared my shoulders, and walked in like I wasn't still holding the emotional debris from lunch with Sumaya in one hand and professionalism in the other.

Dom was already seated at the head of the table, flanked by the Creative Director and two senior consultants—the kind who turned music videos into fashion editorials.. Heads of Branding, Logistics, Design, and Marketing were stationed like high-level chess pieces. Tension buzzed through the air—part caffeine, part anticipation, and part something else entirely.

Then Silva walked in.

He didn't walk so much as arrive. Like the air shifted to make room. Like the moment had been waiting for him to begin.

He moved with the kind of quiet confidence that didn't need volume to command attention. His aura was loud without speaking—a gravitational pull dressed in black linen. The sleeves were rolled up just enough to reveal carved forearms. His collar fell open in a way that looked accidental, but probably wasn't.  His jewelry was minimal, intentional. His waist-length locs were roped back, neat but defiant. Skin radiant. Smile devastating.

He wasn't doing too much. He didn't need to.

He could've worn rags and still looked like he'd just come from brushing shoulders with the sun.

The room dipped in sound. Heads turned. Spines straightened. The fluttering of lashes alone could've caused some of the female staff to levitate. Paba clutched her tablet like it was a holy text. Someone actually gasped.

And then, he took the seat directly across from me.

Of course he did.

Dom clocked it—eyes flicking up briefly before settling back on his notes. His expression was calm, unreadable. But I knew that tightness in his jaw. It was the same one I'd seen during late supplier meetings, or when Aoki's lawyers called unannounced.

Nick began introductions, laying out Silva's resume and the scope of the Silva x Chase Men collaboration. But Silva barely blinked through it. His gaze stayed on me.

Once Nick was done, Silva leaned in and smiled—warm, amused, a little reckless.

"Tell me she's the one giving the presentation," he said. "A sight for my sore eyes."

A ripple of laughter snuck through the creative side of the table. I shook my head, suddenly hyper-aware of the curve of my neckline and the heat creeping up my neck.

"She's Kerry," Nick said. "She's not presenting, but she's been running the engine room."

"That tracks," Silva said, eyes still on me.

"Whatever it is, she makes it happen. Like a genie." Nick said, full of praise.

"I can think of a few things on my wishlist," Silva drawled, locking eyes with me for a second too long.