Sara crawled back to the reception desk and shot the manager a glare as he sneered at her.
"How did it go?" he asked, barely hiding his amusement.
Sara mimicked his tone in an exaggeratedly annoying manner before slapping the file onto the counter. "I have to go perform in front of a bunch of rich kids so this place can get more customers? Isn't that a little shallow?" She clicked her tongue. "I mean, I know I'm beautiful and all, but this is pushing it."
The manager nodded earnestly, playing along.
"Boss is cunning—using you as a brand ambassador without actually paying you enough." He shook his head, though the truth was that Sara was already making way more than the other employees and having the easiest time of her life.
"Right? I should ask him for commission on every new membership. Might as well cash in on my fame," she mused, scheming.
The two exchanged knowing looks before bursting into hearty laughter.
Then, just as the moment settled, the manager straightened up, his tone shifting into something more serious. "By the way, Sara," he said.
Sara, still mid-laugh, quickly collected herself. She studied his expression, sensing that whatever was coming next wasn't just casual talk.
"Why did you really retire from professional swimming?" he asked. "I mean, you had such a bright future ahead. Everyone said you got injured, but… I don't think that's true."
Sara blinked at him, her expression unreadable. Then, with a tone so blunt it almost felt dismissive, she replied,
"I got tired of it."
The manager frowned. "Huh? Just like that? You got tired of it?"
Sara nodded. "Yeah. I never really liked swimming. I just started on a whim, and after winning so many times, I got bored of it."
She pressed her lips into a thin line, her words casual, yet carrying an unmistakable weight. Even her gaze, which had been bright just moments ago, dimmed.
"That's the first time I've heard someone say that," the manager mused, pulling back slightly. Then, after a beat, he asked, "But have you found something else that interests you yet?"
Sara had no answer to that. Instead, she simply stepped away. "I forgot—I need to finish the report by three. Let's talk about this some other time," she said hurriedly before retreating toward her office.
Her office sat on the other end of the main swimming pool area. There was a hallway that led straight to it, but she always took the longer path—through the natatorium. Just to walk by the water. Just to see it.
But today, her steps slowed.
She stopped right at the edge.
Her eyes stayed on the water's surface for a second… then dropped. Lower. Deeper. Where the blue turned almost black. Where the bottom wasn't visible anymore. Her chest tightened. Her thoughts went foggy. Something was down there. Something was calling her.
She didn't know what it was, but she knew it was there. The darkest part of the pool held answers. All the answers, maybe. But she didn't want to go near it.
Ba-dump. Ba-dump.
Her fingers clenched the file tighter. She tried to take a breath—but it got stuck halfway, like something heavy and invisible had filled her lungs.
"Gaaah—!"
A sharp sound escaped her, almost like a choke. She stumbled back from the pool's edge, hand to her chest.
Fear.
That was it. That was the word she should've said to José earlier at the counter.
She was scared of water, or atleast the deeper one.
It sounded so stupid even in her own head. How could someone who'd lived half her life in pools, broken records, won medals—how could she be afraid?
But it was the truth. It was in her body now. The idea of going in again, of diving too deep—it made her feel like she'd drown all over again. Not just in water. In whatever waited for her at the bottom.
What if the answers came to her—and they weren't the kind she could handle?
She didn't want to know. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
.....
A tall man sipped his afternoon tea on the parapet of his mansion. His neatly combed-back gray hair and casual suit—his shirt unbuttoned at the collar—gave him an air of effortless authority. He gazed at the distant trees with a contemplative expression, his focus unbroken as his secretary briefed him on his son's latest business moves.
Vladimir was a man who prided himself on knowing everything—whether it concerned his family or the corporate world. His grip on power was firm, his influence far-reaching. And when it came to his son, Augustine, he was especially vigilant. The boy had always been rebellious, and Vladimir knew it was only a matter of time before he tried to challenge him.
"Sir," the secretary began, flipping through the report. "On the first day of his trip, Master Augustine successfully closed negotiations with West Clair Resorts. He is now preparing to launch a new chain of resorts in the northern region. On the second day, he secured the disputed commercial land in—"
A new voice cut through the report, effortlessly calm yet carrying undeniable weight.
"On the third day, he dismantled the company responsible for leaking Core Corporation's internal data and ensured they paid the price. And on the fourth day, he arrived at his father's mansion—curious to see whether the old mas was still tracking his every move."
The words were spoken without haste, each syllable measured, deliberate.
Augustine had arrived.
He strode into the sitting area with a natural command, his presence demanding attention without needing to force it. Standing at six foot one, his broad shoulders and sculpted frame filled the space. His chiseled features—sharp jawline, high cheekbones, and deep-set, serious eyes—only amplified his imposing aura. His dark brows were slightly furrowed, giving him a stern, almost unapproachable expression.
Dressed in a black cable-knit turtleneck, he carried his tailored jacket casually in one hand as he ascended the last few steps. His jet-black eyes locked onto his father's, unwavering and unreadable.
A quiet tension settled between them.
The old man studied his son for a long moment before placing his teacup down with a soft clink.
"My dear son, I've missed you." Vladimir rose from his seat, extending his hands in welcome.
Augustine tossed his jacket onto the couch beside him before striding over. The two men—nearly identical in height—locked eyes for a fleeting second, exchanging an unspoken challenge wrapped in familiarity. Then, without a word, Augustine gave his father a brief pat on the chest before reaching for his collar, fastening the top buttons of his shirt.
"Father, it's cold. You should start dressing more appropriately for your age," he remarked, his voice laced with subtle sarcasm.
Vladimir's lips curled at the corner, amusement flickering in his eyes.
"If my son insists, then who am I to refuse?" He cast a fleeting glance at his secretary. "Wouldn't you agree, Jay?"
The secretary, ever the loyal observer, gave a silent nod in response.
"Have a seat. Let me pour you a drink." Vladimir gestured, and Augustine accepted without resistance.
The tea trickled into the cup, its amber hue swirling as Augustine watched in silence. Vlad slid the cup toward him before leaning back into his chair.
"When are you heading back?" He cut straight to the point.
Augustine picked up the cup, taking his time with a slow sip before responding.
"Soon." His answer was brief, indifferent.
Vladimir's fingers tapped against the armrest. "It's been a while since I've seen my granddaughter. How is she?" His tone carried weight.
Augustine set the cup down, finally meeting his father's gaze.
"She should be fine. After all, she's with her mother."
Vladimir's brows knitted together, a flicker of irritation flashing across his face.
"Why do you speak of her as if she's not your own daughter?" His voice sharpened. "She is your flesh and blood too."
Augustine exhaled, his expression unreadable.
"Father, let's stop pretending this is some warm, loving family dynamic. It doesn't suit us." His voice was cool, calculated. "You wanted an heir, and you got one. That is all she will ever be. Let's not fill her head with ideas that don't exist. It's better for everyone."
He leaned back slightly, his next words deliberate.
"Unnecessary attachments lead to disaster."
It was a phrase Vladimir himself had once instilled in him.
Vladimir studied the man before him, noting the hollow detachment in his son's eyes. Augustine had become exactly what he had molded him to be—an emotionless workhorse, driven by numbers and ambition, untouched by sentiment.