The worst thing about international meetings wasn’t the jet lag.

  It wasn’t the twelve-hour flight or the man in 14B who snored like a haunted accordion.

  It wasn’t even the overpriced hotel espresso or the fact that Spain insisted on feeding people at 10 p.m., like it was a dare.

  No.

  It was getting a panic call from Aoi in the middle of a billion-euro acquisition meeting.

  I was seated across from a long table full of executives. Their suits were subtle. Their watches weren’t. The room buzzed with tension and numbers and legally binding eye contact. The kind of meeting where people said things like “market consolidation” and “transition strategy” with straight faces.

  My phone buzzed once in my pocket.

  AOI [CALLING]

  I let it go to voicemail.

  Three seconds later:

  AOI: I’M HAVING A FULL MELTDOWN PLEASE ANSWER BEFORE I FOLD INTO A SANDWICH.

  Another buzz.

  AOI: I GOT THE EMAIL. THE EMAIL. PARFAIT WANTS TO INTERVIEW ME. I MISSED IT. I’M GONNA COMBUST.

  I glanced across the table at the man leading the conversation. Tall. Composed. Salt-and-pepper hair that had never known defeat. He spoke softly, like someone used to people listening the first time.

  I leaned back and murmured, “Apologies. Just a moment.”

  He nodded.

  I stepped out onto the glass-walled balcony, phone already dialing. Madrid stretched out below, golden and indifferent.

  Aoi picked up immediately.

  “I MISSED THE EMAIL.”

  “Hello to you too,” I said.

  “I MISSED THE EMAIL,” she repeated, pacing audibly. “IT WAS THERE SINCE YESTERDAY AND I DIDN’T SEE IT BECAUSE I WAS TOO BUSY HAVING A FUNCTIONING LIFE.”

  “That sounds suspicious.”

  “I was happy, Krei. Like an idiot.”

  She explained in fragments, how she found the email mid-scroll this morning, still half-asleep, still smiling from the GhostToast café meetup.

  “I opened it half-asleep while brushing my teeth,” she said. “I thought it was spam. I scrolled past it. I almost deleted it! I swear, Krei, if I had actually deleted that email I would’ve thrown myself out the window.”

  I stared out over Madrid. Below me, the city moved like it didn’t care.

  “You’re going to respond,” I said.

  “I don’t know how to interview! I don’t even know how to exist professionally. What if they ask about content strategy and I tell them my brand is ‘ghosts, crime, and skincare regret’? What if they ask for a vision statement and all I have is goose cults and pudding trauma?!”

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  “Then tell them that. It’s honest.”

  “Krei, this could actually happen. I could get in. And that’s scarier than getting rejected, somehow.”

  A pause. No jokes this time.

  “…I want it,” she whispered. “I didn’t think I did. But now that it’s real? I want it.”

  There it was.

  Raw. Honest. Real.

  I felt it like a small pin pressed against a balloon.

  “You’re allowed to want things,” I said.

  Silence. Then a soft exhale.

  “Okay. I’m going to respond. I’m going to schedule the thing. I’ll panic later.”

  “Good. Wear pants.”

  “Don’t ruin this moment.”

  She hung up before I could answer.

  I stayed on the balcony for a moment longer, the wind threading cold fingers through my hair, cooling the warmth left in my veins.

  Then I stepped back inside, slid into my chair, and folded smoothly into the tempo of conversation. A new slide appeared. Figures. Legalese. A language stripped of pulse.

  The man who was next to me at the table spared me a glance. Just one.

  He didn’t ask what had been so urgent.

  Instead, with a mild, calculating curiosity, he asked:

  “Who was that?”

  His tone was even. Not irritated. Just… interested. The kind of interest reserved for an unexpected move in a well-rehearsed game.

  I didn’t look at him right away.

  I adjusted the cuff of my sleeve, let the silence stretch just enough.

  Then I said, calm and clean as a knife’s edge:

  “Your ex-wife.”

  A flicker. Just for a second. In the corners of his eyes, the edges of his mouth. A man too proud to flinch, too aware to ignore the hit.

  I smiled. Just slightly. Not enough to be impolite. Just enough to make it sting.

  “She says hi, by the way,” I added, soft as silk.

  I could see him recalibrating. Wondering how much I knew. How much she’d told me.

  I smiled, all politeness and precision.

  “She sounded good,” I added. “Clear-headed. Energized.”

  A pause.

  “Happy.”

  He didn’t reply.

  But I saw it. That pause in his breath. That tiny, involuntary muscle in his jaw.

  Good.

  I grabbed a folder and turned the page. The meeting continued.

  And somewhere across the sea, Aoi was screaming about preparing to set the right clothes she'll wear for her interview.

  My phone buzzed once more.

  I didn’t check it.

  I already knew it was her.