The next morning began with a knock on Evan’s door—a quick, efficient rhythm that sounded like Clara’s personality in percussive form. He opened it half-dressed, tie draped around his neck, shirt untucked. She blinked once, unfazed.

“Breakfast meeting,” she said. “Lobby in ten.”

“Does the word ‘vacation’ ever offend you personally, or just conceptually?” he asked.

“Ten minutes, Reid.”

The door closed before he could reply. He stared at it, muttered, “She definitely heard that,” and hurried to make himself resemble a person again.

The café downstairs was all glass and gold fixtures, the kind of place that made croissants feel like a power statement. Clara was already seated, reviewing notes on her tablet. When Evan arrived, she gestured at the untouched coffee across from her.

“Ordered for you.”

He sat. “You knew what I drink?”

“I pay attention to people who surprise me,” she said without looking up. “Unfortunately, that list is short.”

“Tragic,” he said. “Must be lonely at the top.”

She finally looked at him, one brow lifting. “You assume I mind.”

There was something disarming in her tone—half humor, half confession. He didn’t press. Instead, he sipped the coffee and decided not to ruin the moment with words.

They went over the day’s agenda, each topic a landmine of potential politics. Clara outlined strategy like a war general, mapping risks, timing, personalities. Evan mostly listened, throwing in occasional comments that made her roll her eyes but not stop him.  

When he joked, “Should I just stand there and look intelligent?” she answered, “That’s been working for you so far.”

By noon, the Zurich board meeting felt less like business and more like performance art. The conference table gleamed like a surgical instrument; every executive around it looked mildly carnivorous. Evan followed Clara’s lead—measured confidence, concise speech, controlled breaths.  

Then it happened. One of the board members, a silver-haired strategist named Krauss, interrupted Clara mid-sentence. “Ms. Voss, your initiative sounds idealistic. ‘Truth equals respect’? We are not philosophers.”

Evan saw the faint tension in Clara’s jaw—the flicker she hid so well. Before he knew it, he spoke.

“Maybe that’s the problem,” he said. “Most companies act like honesty and performance are opposites. They’re not. They’re cause and effect.”

Krauss turned to him. “And you are?”

“Marketing staff,” Evan said. “Occasionally the guy who spills coffee at the wrong time.”

A ripple of chuckles broke the tension. Clara’s eyes snapped toward him, equal parts warning and gratitude.  

He leaned back, feigning calm. “Respect isn’t a slogan—it’s operational. If people trust leadership, productivity stops needing surveillance.”

Krauss smirked. “You sound rehearsed.”

“I wish I were,” Evan said. “It would’ve sounded smarter.”

That one actually made Clara smile. The rest of the meeting shifted; what had been skepticism became curiosity. By the end, the board requested a full pilot expansion.

After the meeting, Clara walked silently beside him through the cold Zurich air. Her pace was slower than usual.

“You spoke out of turn,” she said finally.

“I know.”

“It worked,” she admitted. “But it still wasn’t your turn.”

“I’ll take being right over being quiet,” he said.

She stopped, looking at him with something unreadable—half irritation, half respect. “Don’t make that your motto.”

“Already engraved it on a mug,” he said.

Her lips pressed together, but she couldn’t hide the smirk. “You’re impossible.”

“Efficiently so.”

That night, they met in the hotel lounge again—this time by accident. Evan was at the bar reading over presentation notes when Clara appeared, carrying a folder and exhaustion in equal measure. She didn’t ask before sitting next to him.

“They approved phase one,” she said. “You made an impression.”

“I do that,” he said. “Usually not intentionally.”

Clara looked down at her drink. “You made me look human. That’s... inconvenient.”

“Only if you plan to stop.”

Her eyes met his. “You think that’s what people want in a CEO? Humanity?”

“I think it’s what they remember.”

For a moment, neither spoke. The city lights reflected off the window, painting her face in fractured gold. It wasn’t attraction that held the air taut—it was recognition. Two people who saw through each other’s armor, realizing it might never fit the same way again.

“Tomorrow,” she said softly, “you’ll fly back first. I’ll stay to finalize the contract.”

He nodded, though something in his chest resisted. “So that’s it?”

“For now,” she said, standing. “Good work, Evan.”

“Good night, Clara.”

She hesitated, as if she wanted to add something, but instead walked away—measured, deliberate, leaving behind the faintest trace of uncertainty in her wake.

Evan watched her reflection fade in the glass, then looked down at the folder in front of him. On the top page, in her handwriting, was a single note:

*‘Truth = Respect’ only works when we start telling ourselves the truth.*

He smiled, unsure whether it was a compliment, a warning, or both.  

Zurich had changed something between them—quietly, irreversibly—and the flight home would not be long enough to forget it.