Chapter 109: Seven Years, One Muffin

Chapter 109: Chapter 109: Seven Years, One Muffin

The downtown offices of the city’s top corporate law firm were entirely made of glass, steel, and high-pressure expectations.

Zoya Ivanov sat at the head of a long, polished conference table. She wore a sharp, perfectly tailored charcoal suit. Her dark hair was pulled back into a sleek, flawless bun.

Across the table, the opposing legal team was completely silent. They were staring at the settlement papers in absolute defeat.

Zoya closed her file.

"The terms are entirely non-negotiable," Zoya stated. Her voice was perfectly composed, completely void of emotion. "You can sign the settlement today, or we can take this to court on Monday, where my firm will statistically ruin your client’s public reputation. The choice is yours."

The opposing lead counsel swallowed hard. He picked up his pen and signed the paper.

Zoya stood up. She did not smile. She simply buttoned her jacket.

"A wise decision. Good afternoon, gentlemen," Zoya said, turning on her heel and walking out the door.

As soon as she stepped into the hallway, a group of junior lawyers immediately surrounded her.

"That was incredible, Ms. Ivanov!" a young associate praised excitedly. "You completely backed them into a corner!"

"They never even saw the liability clause coming," another added.

Zoya simply nodded. She did not slow her pace.

"File the signed documents with the court clerk before three o’clock," Zoya instructed smoothly. "And prepare the preliminary briefs for the real estate merger tomorrow."

She walked into her massive, corner office and shut the door.

Professionally, she was an absolute force of nature. She was a senior corporate lawyer. She was feared in negotiations. She had achieved every single milestone she had ever calculated for herself.

But as she stood alone in the quiet room, she looked out the giant windows.

Her bank account was full. Her career was completely flawless. But personally, her beautiful, expensive office felt just as empty as her quiet apartment.

It was past seven in the evening. The firm was mostly deserted.

Zoya stood by her desk, packing her heavy legal files into her structured leather handbag. As she shoved a thick folder inside, her wallet caught on the zipper.

It slipped out of her bag and hit the carpeted floor.

The wallet popped open. A small, faded yellow square slipped out from behind her ID card and fluttered gently onto the ground.

Zoya completely froze.

She slowly bent down and picked it up.

The edges of the sticky note were worn soft. The ink was heavily faded from years of being pressed inside the leather wallet. But she did not need to see the ink to know exactly what it said.

Eat your muffin, encyclopedia.

Zoya stared at the messy handwriting. A slow, quiet smile broke across her usually stoic face.

Seven years.

She had moved three times. She had changed law firms. She had entirely rebuilt her life. But she still carried this stupid, messy piece of paper everywhere she went.

She carefully folded it back in half, tucked it safely into her wallet, and walked out into the city night.

Across the city, the training facility for the national youth football initiative was still brightly lit.

Jackson Pierce sat at the head of a large boardroom table. He was not wearing a muddy football jersey. He wore a crisp white button-down shirt with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows.

He was the new Sporting Director, and he was completely in his element.

"We need to increase the academy budget by twelve percent," Jackson told the room of older, veteran coaches. His voice was incredibly calm, confident, and heavily respected. "If we do not upgrade the medical facilities for the under-sixteen squad, we will lose them to the European academies."

"Twelve percent is a massive jump, Jackson," the head coach argued.

"It is a necessary investment," Jackson replied firmly. "I am not negotiating player safety. Find the money in the marketing budget. We prioritize the kids first."

The coaches nodded in agreement. The meeting wrapped up, and they slowly filed out of the room.

Jackson stayed behind, rubbing the back of his neck in exhaustion.

His assistant, a highly organized young man, walked into the room holding a tablet.

"Great meeting, Mr. Pierce," the assistant said. "Just a reminder, you have dinner with Miss Harrison tonight at eight."

Jackson did not even look up from his papers.

"Cancel it," Jackson said flatly.

The assistant let out a heavy, tired sigh. "Again?"

"Again," Jackson replied without a single drop of hesitation.

"Mr. Pierce, she is a very lovely woman," the assistant tried gently. "This is the third date you have canceled this month."

Jackson finally looked up. His dark eyes were entirely serious.

"I am busy," Jackson stated.

He was not busy. He was just entirely uninterested. He had spent the last seven years dating perfectly nice women, but absolutely none of them ever argued with him about statistics. None of them ever glared at him for ruining their study schedule.

And because of that, none of them ever lasted.

The next morning, Zoya arrived at the headquarters of the national youth football initiative.

Her law firm had been hired by the corporate sponsors to finalize the massive funding contracts. It was a huge deal, and Zoya was assigned to lead the final negotiations.

She walked down the long hallway, carrying two thick red files. She checked her silver watch. She was exactly three minutes early.

She pushed open the double doors to the main conference room.

She stepped inside.

A tall, broad-shouldered man was standing by the window, pouring a cup of coffee. He turned around when he heard the door open.

Zoya completely stopped breathing.

The heavy red files almost slipped right out of her hands.

Neither of them knew the other would be attending. Jackson was the Sporting Director for the initiative, and Zoya was the lead counsel for the sponsors. But they had absolutely no idea until this exact second.

Total, heavy silence filled the room.

Jackson stared at her. He looked at her sharp suit, her perfect hair, and her wide, dark eyes.

He slowly set the coffee pot down. He did not smile. He did not look away.

"Ms. Ivanov," Jackson said. His deep voice was smooth and perfectly controlled.

Zoya locked her jaw. She forced her racing heart to calm down. She built her icy, professional wall in less than a second.

She walked forward and set her files on the table. She met his eyes.

"Mr. Pierce."

It was entirely professional. It was completely cold.

Ten minutes later, the rest of the corporate team arrived. The meeting officially began.

"My clients are willing to fund the academy," Zoya stated smoothly, opening her files. "However, Clause Four states that the corporate sponsors retain exclusive image rights for all youth players over the age of sixteen."

"That clause is entirely unacceptable," Jackson countered immediately. He leaned forward, resting his large hands on the table. "The players are not billboards. The sponsors can have logo placement on the training kits, but they do not own the kids’ individual image rights."

"The sponsors are providing five million dollars," Zoya pointed out logically. "They expect a return on their investment. Statistically, individual image rights generate the highest revenue."

"Find the revenue somewhere else," Jackson said firmly. "I am not signing away their rights."

They went back and forth for over an hour. They debated funding percentages, liability clauses, and media access. Neither of them let their personal history interfere for a single second. They were brilliant at their jobs.

But beneath the cold, corporate arguments, they were both watching.

Jackson looked at the table. He noticed that Zoya still organized her legal files with perfectly color-coded plastic tabs. Red for non-negotiable clauses. Blue for flexible terms. She had not changed her system at all.

Zoya watched his hands. She noticed that whenever the corporate lawyers tried to confuse him with heavy legal jargon, Jackson still spun his silver pen rapidly between his fingers while he was thinking.

They were tiny, invisible habits.

Neither of them commented on it. They just kept arguing about the contract.

"We will adjust Clause Four," Zoya finally conceded, closing her red file. "The sponsors will take logo placement on the kits instead of individual rights."

"Thank you, Ms. Ivanov," Jackson nodded.

The meeting was officially over.

Everyone stood up, shook hands, and began filtering out of the boardroom.

Zoya quickly packed her bags. She wanted to get out of the building as fast as possible before her professional mask completely cracked. She walked briskly down the hallway and pressed the button for the elevator.

She watched the digital numbers slowly descend.

"Hold the door."

Zoya turned her head.

Jackson was walking down the hallway toward her.

He did not look like the intimidating Sporting Director anymore. He just looked like Jackson.

The elevator arrived with a soft ding. The metal doors slid open.

Zoya stepped inside. Jackson stepped in right behind her. The doors slid shut, leaving them entirely alone in the small space.

Zoya gripped her leather bag. She stared straight ahead at the metal doors.

Jackson did not flirt with her. He did not ask for her phone number. He did not offer a massive, dramatic apology for the last seven years.

Instead, he simply reached into his pocket.

He held out a small, slightly crumpled white paper bag.

Zoya looked down. She could smell it instantly.

It was a fresh blueberry muffin. Exactly the kind he used to drop on her textbook every single Tuesday at the campus library.

Zoya felt her throat completely close up. She slowly looked up from the paper bag and met his dark eyes.

Jackson smiled. It was a faint, quiet, incredibly soft smile.

"You always skipped lunch," Jackson said simply.

The elevator reached the ground floor. The metal doors slid open behind them, revealing the busy, crowded lobby.

Neither of them moved for a single second.