Sweet Romance13 min read
"You asked me to come — so I came."
ButterPicks15 views
"Alaric, can I come visit?" I typed and hit send before my courage could change its mind.
He answered in three dots, then: "Yes. Tomorrow."
I nearly dropped my phone. Ten years of emails, a single word back, and my chest did a weird flip that felt like a mistake and a treasure at once.
"Don't get ahead of yourself," Jana joked on the other end of the line. "You sure this is a good idea? He could be—"
"—a monster?" I cut in. "He gave me ten bucks and his email when I cried by the curb. He's not a monster, Jana. He's Alaric Young."
"Right. The Alaric Young who runs an influence company and looks like a model." Jana snorted. "Be reasonable, Nastya."
"Anastasia," I said. "Call me Anastasia when you're being bossy."
We were laughing, and then the laugh curdled a little because I pictured his face again: those sharp cheekbones, the grave smile, the way he had shoved a wad of bills into my cold hands and said, "Email me if you need anything." I had emailed him every small thing for ten years. He had always replied like someone humoring a stray: careful, polite, distant. Once in a while he would be sharp and serious, once in a blue moon tender. Tonight he said two letters that opened a door.
The airport smelled like coffee and the sky was low and bright. I hugged my bag to my chest and scanned every man who might be Alaric Young. I pinned his brief message to the inside of my head: "I'll meet you outside Arrivals. I'll wear the gray coat."
He stood exactly where he said he would. He looked smaller close up — and a lot taller. He smiled like he was surprised to see me. "Anastasia," he said, and tapped my nose like he had a right to do it.
"Alaric," I said. "You're late."
"Traffic," he said. "Come on. I owe you lunch."
We spoke the way strangers do: small, safe words. Then the city closed its distance and we were in the car, and the quiet grew less awkward and more warm.
"Are you nervous?" he asked.
"A little."
"Tell me everything that's cool about your town," he said. "Or I can tell you a boring fact about our company."
"You can tell me a boring fact," I said. "But only if it's true."
We ate at a mall hotpot place and his hand accidentally knocked mine when he reached for the pepper. The napkin thief in me wanted to be bold. I wanted to be obvious. I wanted to sit on his lap and do everything wrong and see which of those wrongs he would let happen and which he'd stop.
"Do you still write?" he asked.
"Yes," I said, "I write for magazines and a few sites. I'm also... well, I'm not poor." I said the last part like it was a small note I didn't want him to attach to me.
His eyebrows rose but he didn't press. "Good."
"Why did you help me that day?" I asked suddenly.
His jaw tilted. "You were crying," he said simply. "You looked like you could use someone to show up."
We had coffee and then he walked me across the river. He told me about the first office he rented and the people who laughed at him, and the two emails he kept in his archive that reminded him why he did it. He had a voice that made small things feel patient. I told him about the essay I lost when a storm took the cafe's power and he said, "Send me the next draft."
At his office the next day I met Evan, his assistant, who looked like he lived on energy drinks and spreadsheets.
"He's late," Evan told me, smiling at nothing. "He usually hates being late."
"I like seeing him be late for lunch," I said.
Evan blinked. "You're bribing your way into the boss' cover?" He laughed. "Okay. We'll see."
The office smelled like equipment and success. Influencers were a different breed — loud makeup, louder phones, soft power polished to a shine. A woman named Silvia Crosby watched me like a hawk. She had been a queen around those desks for years, the kind of woman who colored the room.
"You're Anastasia Delgado?" she said in the way a season has a way. "Alaric's new visitor?"
"Friend," I said. "Someone he invited."
She smiled too sharp. "Lucky you."
A week scribbled itself down. I met Alaric for quiet things: a sunset near the pier, a small temple up in the hills where tourists took gram-worthy photos, a street lined with skewers and laughter. I learned his habits. He turned away from his phone when we sat together. He let me steal fries. He introduced me to a stray white dog residents called "Little White" and smiled when the dog refused to leave my side.
But the quiet rich life has sharp edges when others see it.
"That is him," I heard someone whisper one night as Alaric handed me a napkin. "That's the boss."
"Who's that? The new girl?" another asked.
"Not her," a voice hissed. "Silvia shouldn't lose him."
Silvia. She started watching. Her messages to Alaric started arriving with a tone I recognized: possession.
"Why are you seeing her?" she asked once in the hallway. She had a crowd when she asked. "Does she work here now?"
"She's visiting," Alaric said coolly.
Silvia's smile dropped. "Visiting? How quaint." She left like she had meant to leave a sting.
Then photographs started appearing in groups and channels: a grainy picture of Alaric and me eating skewers; a snapshot of us laughing beneath string lights. Someone had sent a photo into the company chat and the whole floor lit up.
"She looks young," a junior wrote out loud.
"Who sent this?" Silvia demanded.
"That one was me," said a girl named Hilda, who liked to stir. "It was cute."
From that night gossip sprouted like mushrooms. Silvia's lips thinned.
Then, the salon.
Silvia had always been the company crown. She owned looks and deals. She liked to be seen in gold. She liked people to think she had the boss' ear. When she found out Alaric had been with me, she did a thing she had done before: she went to the place she controlled — the public space of image — and she took a risk.
"Make me brighter," she told the stylist, and when Dolan Kristensen, a new trainee, misheard and used a green-toned processing solution, and when a dye went wrong and her hair came out a bright grass green, her scream cut the room.
She blamed the stylist immediately. She blamed our company, she blamed coincidence. She posted a story that night: "Green is the new me. #rebirth" and then she posted the photo and the word "betrayal" in a sentence.
The next day she came to work furious. The green hair didn't hide her fury. She stormed through desks and shoved a few people aside and, as tempers flared, she slapped Hilda who had tried to make a joke. It sparked a chain — slaps, shouts, then a real office fight. Alaric shut it down, icy calm cutting through the din.
"What is this?" he asked in his office, his voice a quiet cymbal.
"She started it," Hilda said.
"She can't control herself," another said. "She hits people."
Silvia's face was a mud of green dye and rage. She screamed, "You all are a pack of liars. He promised me—"
He had promised? He had not.
I watched from the doorway. My mouth tasted of iron. I wanted to step forward and take her hand and say, "Silvia, stop." She whipped around and saw me, and I felt, stupidly, a rush of guilt and a flash of fear.
The day the company group exploded with the leaked photos, it meant scandal. But the real storm would be outside the office.
It was a charity gala, a glass atrium full of donors, influencers, and city glitter. Alaric's company booked a table because he was supposed to announce a partnership. Silvia arrived in green hair and anger, wearing a dress that was too tight and a smile that didn't match her teeth. She had a pile of loyal staff behind her — people she had bought with collabs and threats.
She had been planning something for days: a demonstration, a reveal, a way to turn a rumor into a vendetta. She had convinced herself that if she could humiliate me in public, she could tie Alaric to indignation and revolutions and ownership.
I walked in with Jared — my brother — and a few quiet friends. I had decided to keep my name small; Jared, clever and blunt, had promised to stay at the edge and not reveal more than necessary. I had not told Alaric everything about my family. I had not wanted him to calculate me the way people calculate fortunes.
Silvia stood when she saw me. The fluorescence of the atrium made her green hair almost radioactive. She walked to the center of the room like a queen crossing her court.
"Everyone," she said, loud and clear. "I have something to show you."
Her phone screen flashed on the giant hall projector. It showed grainy screenshots of messages. "He's a liar," she said. "He's a player. He used me. He uses us all." She aimed the accusation at Alaric then at me, pantomiming betrayal for every camera present.
People took out their phones. Cameras tilted. A crowd drew like rain. Somewhere a reporter clicked record.
Silvia flicked the slides. "She is not who she says. She is a plant. She is a rich heiress playing poor. She used him for press and pity."
I felt something hollow in my chest. The room smelled like perfume and panic.
I stood up. "Stop."
She laughed too loud. "What, Anastasia? You mean 'Nastya'?" She used the nickname I'd used with Jana. The room laughed at her mimic.
"Please," I said. "Don't make this about finance. This is between grown people."
Silvia walked up to me and sneered. "You lied to us all. You lied to him. He deserves better."
Alaric held up his hand like a judge. "Silvia," he said, "this is not the place."
"Isn't it?" she cried. "Why not? Because you are on her side? Because you can pick up and protect your projects like toys and leave the rest to rot?"
"Enough." His voice was calm and it landed like a fist.
But the crowd wanted drama. They wanted answers. Silvia clicked to another image. "Look at this," she said. "This is her inbox ten years ago. This is a staged sob story. She used his pity. She used him."
"Silvia, what are you doing?" Evan hissed in his ear from the side.
"Do it," she mouthed. "Do it."
Alaric's eyes fixed on her. "Do you have proof that she meant to hurt me?" he asked.
She smiled. "I have proof that she lied."
"Then show it."
She brought up a thread. It was cropped, it was edited, it was glazed with innuendo. She read lines meant to embarrass: "I only came for his money," and "I like his car." The words were fake; they had been stitched. Yet the projector made them giants and real.
Someone filmed. Someone started to taunt. At the edge, donors leaned forward. My hands trembled.
I decided then not to be small. I stepped forward.
"Do you want to know what the truth is?" I said, loud enough that the cameras pivoted and the center of the room shifted to me. People leaned in because people always love the curve of a real reveal.
"Yes," Silvia said, pleased.
"This," I said, and I reached into my bag. I pulled out the original email thread she had posted — saved files, the raw messages with timestamps and headers. "If you wanted truth, you'd read the raw file, not a screenshot meant to trick."
She laughed. "You think you can prove anything? Who are you even to bring that here?"
"I am Anastasia Delgado." I let my last name sit in the air like a coin. "Yes. I am from a family people know. Yes, I don't live in a one-room apartment. But for years, I wrote to Alaric with a simple ask for help when I fell apart. He didn't owe me anything. He never promised me the world. He gave me kindness. That's all. If kindness is a crime here, why are you holding the court?"
A hush traveled the hall like wind. Someone whispered, "Delgado? The Delgados?"
Silvia's face changed. For the first time she looked small in the acid light. She blinked. "That... that's not—"
"You lied about the emails," Evan said from behind the stage. "She was honest."
"Why would you lie?" Alaric asked Silvia quietly.
"Because—" she began. Her voice thinned. "Because I couldn't stand seeing you with her. Because I thought I owned a place in your life, and I saw it vanish."
"That's not yours to own," he said. "Not ever."
Then I did what Jana always said was a dramatic move: I opened my laptop. I had collected everything, the raw headers, the timestamps, the backups, the bank receipts of the tiny help he once slipped me — not to keep as proof, but I had kept them in case I needed to tell the truth my way. I connected and cast the verified files to the projector. The room watched while the truth scrolled: dates, times, genuine lines, clear and unaltered. It showed how kind he had been and how honest I had been. It revealed the edits Silvia had made.
The crowd's mood shifted. Cameras clipped forward. Reporters hunted for soundbites. Donors whispered. A few minutes later someone shouted, "This is edited!" pointing at Silvia. Her supporters turned away.
Silvia's face collapsed. "You can't—" she choked. Her voice became small and brittle. "You tricked me. You—"
"Stop," Alaric said. "This ends."
He walked to the stage and stood before her. Then he did something I did not expect. He did not defend me with grand words. He did not give a speech. He looked at her, and his eyes were clear and not unkind.
"Did you tell the reporters you would do this?" he asked.
"No," she whispered.
"Did you think a public show would win what you want?"
"Yes," she said, and then: "No."
She started to shake. "Please," she said suddenly, and then louder, because the cameras were close and the world had teeth, "Please, Alaric. Don't—don't ruin me. Please."
The scene turned into a private movie. People took videos. Someone laughed. Someone else started to boo. A donor tutted. Her loyalists did not know what to do. One by one they stepped back.
"Stop filming," Alaric said.
She dropped to her knees as if forcefully struck. It's strange how knees can make someone look small and discovered. "Please," she said again. "I can't—"
"Get up," Alaric said.
"No." She shook her head. Tears slicked the green over her cheeks. She looked like a child. "I fought for you, I— I thought you were mine."
It was too much for a charity hall. A few spouses gasped. Someone muttered about loyalty and about a woman's temper. Someone else took a step closer with a camera. The security walked in.
The security asked her to step aside. They did it gently at first and then with more firmness when her trembling became theatrical.
She reached out her hands toward Alaric. "Please," she croaked. "I can fix this. I will— I'll apologize to everyone. I will pay you back—"
"Stop," Alaric said. "You will apologize to the people you hit. You will apologize on our company channels. And you will step down from any role that gives you power here. If there is legal misrepresentation, we will see the lawyers." He looked at the cameras and then at the room. "You cannot weaponize a life for revenge."
"Please—" she said again, and now the word was small as a coin dropped.
She sobbed until her breaths were raw. People filmed. The manager called the PR team. Journalists circled like wolves.
Silvia's public undoing wasn't instantaneous. It was a slow, crunchy collapse. Sponsors froze deals. A brand that had a lipstick line with her announced a pause to "review partnership suitability." She trended with hashtags that were vicious. Her followers posted screenshots of rude DMs she had sent. Her apology video the next day had shaky lighting and an unsteady voice. She read from a script and apologized to the company and to one woman — me — without looking me in the eyes. People debated whether it was sincere or performance.
She went from queen to pariah in seventy hours. The company issued a statement: internal review, temporary leave, cooperation with disciplinary procedures. Her PR declined. The beauty agency she trusted backed away.
She lost public trust, then she lost sponsors, then she lost her top-tier influencer deals. People judged her not just for the green hair or for the fight, but for the small choices that made her think public shaming was her right. The city loved a good fall.
I had not wanted any of it. I had wanted a quiet meeting and maybe a chance. But the world is messy and public and hungry.
After the gala, Alaric walked me to the river. "I'm sorry," he said. "I should have been clearer with her. I should have told everyone my life isn't a giveaway. I should have spoken up sooner."
"You didn't owe her anything," I said. "But you did handle it well."
He looked down and his fingers found mine. "Did I scare you?"
"Sometimes," I admitted.
"I meant what you said. You're not a lie. You're you."
We leaned against the railing. He squeezed my hand. "I am not alone in this," he said. "I won't be cruel. Not to you. Not to her."
"I don't want her hurt," I said. "But I don't want to be erased either."
"Nor do I."
A week later, the company's PR released the full email logs for review. Silvia sued the salon for the dye disaster — but the salons produced their staff logs and video; Dolan had apologized and the salon had offered compensation. The legal fuss was messy, but everything fell so that the truth remained mostly on my side.
Silvia's pleading videos lived on the net. She posted a filmed apology to me that was shaky and full of tears. I read it once and then deleted the link in my head. People who had cheered for her before argued on comment threads whether internet vengeance was fair. I felt small and big at once.
Alaric took me to a place he said he'd wanted me to see: a small, awkward rooftop with a childlike swing someone had hung between two planters. "I thought you wanted to try one of those," he said.
"Did you?" I asked.
"I did."
We sat. He pushed me once, gently. "Tell me what you really like," he asked.
"Quiet mornings," I said. "The idea of writing a book one day. Dogs that steal your socks. People who are kind for small reasons."
"Good," he said. "Because I like to fix things. Small reasons. Large ones."
We spent the afternoon with our feet dangling above a city that no longer felt too much like a stage. He worried less about what the world thought and more about what we were doing in the corner of it. We walked slower. We ate worse fries. We held hands when no one was watching.
Months later, Silvia left the company by mutual agreement. She tried starting fresh — smaller channels, therapy, a look that hid her green past. People still talked. Sponsors did not return. She sued for defamation and then withdrew. The courtroom drama was small and tedious and then over. She lost deals, but she kept living — and sometimes that felt worse to the public than any court loss.
As for me, I told Alaric eventually, quietly, over dishes of plain noodles and the smell of lemon tea, the truth about my family. "I came with a name willingly kept small," I said. "I wanted to know if you could like me for what I write and for how I laughed, not because of anything else."
He listened. "I know," he said. "I liked the emails before I knew your name. I liked the small, steady ones. And I like whatever you choose to be now."
He kissed me like a promise: slow, certain. It felt right. Jana called me giddy and my brother Jared grumbled that he had engineered nothing worth credit for. He had, in fact, left the company staff a small note: "I approve." The city had its stories. The internet had its bad days and better ones.
Silvia's punishment, when it came in the public form the city wanted, looked like this: a fall from influence, a sequence of apologies, the click of doors closing, the soft sound of her name losing its echo. She lost the deals, the support, the perks that had been part of her fortress. She knelt in front of cameras and begged not because she had learned but because the camera meant money and it was her way out. People watched, judged, and moved on. I didn't celebrate it. I watched with a hollow place where some victory should have been.
A year later, I was still on that rooftop swing with Alaric, watching Little White sleep in the sun on the tiles. "You asked me to come," I said. "So I came."
"And I'm glad," he said. "Stay."
I pushed off and let the wind and the slow tilt of the world fill my bones. It felt real, and that was the best kind of brave.
The End
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