Innovating Love

Numia

I sit in my office at the Silverton hotel, dealing with a migraine that feels like a freight train crashing into my skull. Damn the souvenir of a red-eye flight and the unending demands of my high-flying career. My Executive Assistant has thrown a curveball at me by scheduling a last-minute meeting with a potential client, Oliver Matamoros. As the meeting looms closer, I question my decision to agree to this surprise addition to my schedule. All I crave is the comfort of my penthouse a few floors up, where I can shut out the world’s insistent calls. I lean back in my chair, sliding off my nude heels, and grab the remote for the TV facing away from my desk. If Oliver joins even a minute late, I’m packing up and leaving. Even though I wanted to make a good impression by taking the meeting in my office, I regret not doing it from my laptop at home. The throbbing in my head intensifies as the minutes tick by. I pinch the bridge of my nose, trying to relieve the migraine’s pressure. Suddenly, the door to my office swings open, and I’m ready to lash out at Anna, my assistant, for not respecting the impending meeting. But the words catch in my throat when I see him. There, standing before me, is Oliver Matamoros. His hazel eyes lock onto mine, assessing me with a slow, intense scrutiny. Those eyes are like pools of melted gold, capturing my attention like a gravitational force. With his sharp jawline and piercing hazel gaze, Oliver emanates a quiet intensity. His dark hair is styled in a casual yet deliberate manner, giving him an attractive ruggedness that I can’t ignore. Shades of chestnut and mahogany dance in his hair, playing with sunlight and shadows. His olive skin carries a natural glow, accentuating the fusion of his Greek and Spanish heritage. Standing at six foot five, he commands attention with his stature alone. He’s a man who effortlessly combines the charm of Greece and the charisma of Spain. A warm smile curves his lips, a smile that could disarm even the most guarded heart. I swiftly sit up, attempting to regain my composure. My heart races, and I scramble to subtly put my shoes back on beneath my desk, out of his view.

“No need,” he says with a warm smile. “Make yourself comfortable.” Suppressing my astonishment, I clear my throat. “Mr. Matamoros, why are you here in person? Our meeting was supposed to be via Zoom.”

“I think there’s been a mix-up. Our last meeting was scheduled for Zoom,” he responds, his tone tinged with amusement. I pinch the bridge of my nose again, realizing he’s the one who canceled our last three meetings. Yet here he stands, defying that beauty should be spread out equally. Oliver looks as if he’s walked straight out of a boardroom, while I resemble a drowned rat that someone decided to play dress-up with. He’s impeccably dressed in a tailored suit, his style oozing sophistication and a hint of audacity. Most pictures I’ve seen of him show him in suits, highlighting his broad shoulders and Spanish charm. There was this home shoot where he opted for a more relaxed look with well-fitted shirts and rugged denim, revealing his adventurous side. Beyond his suave exterior, I know Oliver possesses a deep passion for art and literature. He frequents art galleries, discussing the works of legendary artists. His grasp of history and mythology reflects his Greek roots, while his love for dance and music echoes his Spanish heritage.

“Please, have a seat,” I gesture to the plush chair across from me.

“You seem like you could use some rest,” he observes, genuine concern in his gaze.

“What I need is to be... to be...” I pause, letting my irritation slip through my words. “To be left alone, to take care of myself, and not be bombarded with unexpected surprises,” I finally manage to express. Oliver’s lips curl into a smile.

“What else do you need?”

“To know why it took you six months to respond to the proposal I sent,” I reply, my frustration evident.

“Numia,” he chuckles softly, “how do you manage to have any clients?” I freeze, realizing I’m not used to being so curt with a potential client.

“I apologize, Mr. Matamoros,” I admit with a sigh. “I’ve just returned from a grueling 16-hour flight, and I’m in the foulest mood of my life. Can we reschedule for later this evening?”

“Oliver is fine,” he corrects casually, taking a seat across from me. “You did attend the Global Summit, didn’t you?”

“If attending means juggling meeting rooms, catering, video and audio setups, panels, and roundtables for some of the world’s most influential figures, then yes, I was there,” I respond, my irritation waning slightly.

“I was already impressed, but the videos and reports I’ve seen in the news took it to another level. You managed to make it efficient, aesthetically pleasing, and, my word, it seemed like an enjoyable retreat,” Oliver compliments, his eyes shining with admiration.

“Just keep snacks available,” I jest, tapping my temple playfully. “And who said meetings have to be held around a table? Couches work just as well.”

“Right,” he nods, seemingly fascinated by my approach. “I’m genuinely excited about the possibility of collaborating with you.”

“Mr.—”

“Oliver,” he interjects gently. “Remember, you reached out to me.”

“Six months ago,” I sigh, recollecting the detailed proposal I sent him—a proposal that seemingly vanished into the ether without a response. “As a boutique Event Planning company—”

“Boutique?” he raises an eyebrow, intrigued. “You work with world leaders, governors, and A-listers. I wouldn’t call what you do boutique.”

“I only take on a handful of clients each year,” I clarify. “To deliver the quality I strive for, I have to limit the number of clients. And those who allow me the time to do my best work,” I emphasize. “Two and a half months to organize your company’s monumental public debut, in the midst of rapid global expansion and imminent inclusion in the hall of fame, is insufficient.”

“We could have multiple events,” Oliver suggests, his eyes sparking with enthusiasm.

“As tempting as that is, I’m unable to take on more work this year,” I admit with a touch of regret.

“I’m willing to pay triple your retainer and twenty percent of each event’s budget,” he proposes, catching me off guard.

“There are numerous event planners out there.”

“I’m interested in only the best.”

I study Oliver for a moment, my gaze lingering on him as I take in his bold statement. Triple the retainer and twenty percent of each event’s budget. That’s more money than I’ve made in a year. It’s tempting, but I can’t let the weight of his words blind me.

I look at him closely, trying to gauge his true intentions. He’s composed, his posture immaculate, but there’s something in his eyes that doesn’t sit quite right. Confidence? Yes. But is it arrogance or just a man used to getting what he wants? He leans slightly forward, like he’s offering me something that could change my life—and I can tell that for him, it’s nothing more than business. A transaction. But is that all it is?

His casual mention of “only the best” doesn’t escape me. The compliment feels more like a test. Does he truly value my work, or is he just intrigued by my reputation and the name I’ve made for myself? His wealth is obvious—his words drip with it, with the confidence of someone who has never heard the word “no.” But what’s really behind that polished exterior?

There’s a slight shift in his expression, a glint of impatience when I don’t respond immediately. It’s subtle, but it’s there—almost like he’s used to people caving in when faced with numbers like that. I have to admit, it’s hard not to be swayed by such a simple, effortless offer. But I’ve learned not to be distracted by shiny things. This might be a great deal, but I need more than just the money. I need to know he means it.

I let the silence stretch out a little longer, feeling the weight of the moment before finally meeting his eyes with a level, neutral gaze.

“There are numerous event planners out there,” I say coolly, the words slipping out easily, though I know the underlying message is clear. I’m not someone to be bought—at least, not so easily.

I see the flicker in his eyes, the slight tightening of his jaw, and I realize I’ve caught him off guard. Good. Let him wonder what’s next. Let him prove he’s not just throwing money at me to get what he wants.

"You reached out to me."

“Which brings us back to the question of why you never reached out.”