"I need to go," I say, setting the package on her desk with hands that have gone numb. "Please tell Mr. Hawthorne these are the ornaments he ordered. Already paid for. No need for follow-up."
"He's expecting to see you personally," Vanessa says, concern creeping into her professional demeanor. "He cleared his schedule for the next hour specifically?—"
"An emergency at the shop," I cut her off, already backing toward the elevator. "Please let him know I'm sorry I couldn't stay."
She doesn't believe me—that much is obvious from her expression—but she nods, reaching for her phone. Probably to alert Christian that I'm fleeing his office like the building's on fire.
Which is exactly what it feels like. My chest burns, my throat tight with humiliation and hurt. I jab repeatedly at the elevator button, praying it arrives before Christian emerges from his meeting. I can't face him right now, not with this raw wound still bleeding. Not when I've just discovered that everything between us has an expiration date he never bothered to mention.
The elevator doors open, and I stumble inside, pressing the button for the lobby with shaking fingers. As the doors slide closed, I catch a glimpse of Christian rounding the corner into the reception area, his expression shifting from anticipation to confusion when he spots me in the departing elevator.
Too late. The doors close, sealing me away from his questioning gaze, carrying me downward and away from the man I've been foolish enough to start falling for.
The man who's been planning his exit strategy all along.
I make it to the street before the first tear falls. Then another. And another. I walk blindly, not caring where I'm going as long as it's away from Hawthorne Enterprises, away from Christian, away from my own staggering naiveté. How could I have been so stupid? The signs were all there—his intensity, his rush to claim me, his diamond declaration of "Mine." Not the actions of a man building something lasting, but of someone seizing what he wants in the moment, collecting another acquisition before moving on to the next challenge. The next continent.
A deal "in the works for months," his assistant said. Months during which Christian pursued me with single-minded determination. Months during which he never once mentioned that he was planning to leave the country for years. Not during our dance at the gala, not during our dinner at Archer's, not eventhree nights ago at his penthouse when he spoke of connection and commitment while hanging that damned ornament on his tree.
I find myself in a small park a few blocks from his building, collapsing onto a bench as my legs finally give out. The winter air is sharp in my lungs, each breath painful as reality continues to sink in. Snow begins to fall, delicate flakes that seem to mock the diamond snowflake he gave me—both beautiful, both cold, both ultimately melting away to nothing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Christian, of course. The first of what will undoubtedly be many attempts to reach me after my abrupt departure from his office. I silence it without looking, unable to face his explanations or justifications right now. What could he possibly say? "Sorry I forgot to mention I'm moving to Europe while asking you to be mine"? "I thought you'd make a nice distraction until I leave"?
I try to think rationally through the haze of hurt clouding my mind. Perhaps it's not certain yet. Perhaps he's still deciding. Perhaps there's an explanation that makes sense of his pursuit alongside his plans to leave. But none of these possibilities erase the central betrayal: he kept this from me. Deliberately. While pushing for increasing intimacy, increasing commitment, increasing connection.
The memory of our night at his penthouse takes on a sickening new cast. His vulnerability about his parents' death, his admission about fear driving his need for control—was any of it genuine? Or just another calculated approach when his initial possessive strategy met resistance? The thought that he might have manipulated my empathy, used my growing understanding of his past to further his pursuit while knowing it had an expiration date—it makes me physically ill.
My phone buzzes again. And again. Then a text: Sophie, please call me. There's been a misunderstanding. I need to explain.
Misunderstanding. Such a convenient word for someone caught in a lie of omission. There's nothing to misunderstand about "European headquarters" and "at least two years overseas." The clarity is brutal in its simplicity.
Another text appears: Where are you? I'm worried.
The concern would be touching if it weren't so hypocritical. Where was this worry for my feelings when he was planning his European relocation while simultaneously telling me I was his? Where was this concern for honesty during our supposedly intimate conversations?
I stand, brushing snow from my coat, a cold determination replacing the initial shock and hurt. I won't be another acquisition for Christian Hawthorne, another prize he claims temporarily before moving on to the next challenge. I deserve more than to be someone's fleeting interest, someone's American diversion before their European adventure.
The diamond snowflake—his possessive gift—sits on my dresser at home. I need to return it. Need to make a clean break before I fall any deeper, before the inevitable end hurts even more than it already does. The thought of facing him, of maintaining my resolve under the intensity of his gaze, makes my stomach clench. But I need this closure. Need to end things on my terms rather than waiting for him to discard me when he boards that plane to Munich or London or Paris.
My phone rings again. This time, it's Lily. I answer, knowing I need to hold myself together for this conversation.
"Hey, everything okay?" she asks immediately. "Christian Hawthorne just called the shop looking for you. Sounded pretty frantic."
"I'm fine," I lie, my voice steadier than I feel. "Just a miscommunication about a delivery."
"Uh-huh," Lily says, clearly not believing me. "And that's why he called three times in ten minutes? Sophie, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you later," I promise. "Can you handle the shop for the rest of the day? I need to take care of something."
"Of course, but?—"
"Thanks, Lily. I'll explain everything tomorrow." I end the call before she can press further, before my composure cracks and the truth spills out.
I flag down a taxi, giving the driver the address to my place where I run inside and grab the gift and then Christian's building. My phone buzzes continuously as Christian alternates between calls and increasingly urgent texts. I silence it completely, slipping it into my bag. I need clarity, focus, determination for what comes next. No distractions, no weakening resolve.
The taxi weaves through downtown traffic as snow falls harder, blanketing the city in white. How appropriate—a clean slate, a fresh covering over everything that came before. By the time we arrive at Christian's building, I've rehearsed what I'll say, how I'll remain composed, how I'll make it clear that I won't be another temporary acquisition in his collection.
I pay the driver and step out into the swirling snow, looking up at the penthouse levels of the luxury high-rise. Somewhere up there is the tree we decorated together, the piano where he played Chopin, the sofa where we talked about vulnerability and trust. All of it built on a foundation of omitted truths and undisclosed plans.
