The doorman recognizes me—of course he does; Christian would have made sure of that—and nods me toward the private elevator. "Mr. Hawthorne called down about you, Ms. Winters. Said to send you up immediately when you arrived."
So he anticipated I'd come here. Of course he did. Christian Hawthorne, always three steps ahead, always in control of every variable. Except me. I won't be controlled or manipulated or temporarily claimed until he's ready to move on.
The private elevator requires a keycard, which I don't have. Good. Let him come down to me, out of his carefully controlled domain. Let him face me on more neutral ground.
"Please tell Mr. Hawthorne I'm in the lobby," I tell the doorman. "I'd prefer to speak with him here."
The man looks uncertain but makes the call. I stand in the center of the marble lobby, back straight, chin up, heart breaking beneath my carefully composed exterior. Preparing to end whatever this was before it can end me.
The diamond snowflake sits heavy in my coat pocket, its weight a reminder of everything I thought was beginning between us. Everything that was apparently nothing more than a temporary claim before his next conquest, his next acquisition, his next life across an ocean.
The private elevator doors open less than two minutes after the doorman's call. Christian strides across the marble lobby, his usual controlled demeanor replaced by something I've never seen before—urgency bordering on desperation. His tie is loosened, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it repeatedly. His eyes find mine immediately, relief washing over his features before registering my expression, my stance, the distance I'm deliberately maintaining between us. He slows his approach, wariness replacing relief. Good. He should be wary. I'm not here for reconciliation.
"Sophie," he says, my name emerging like a breath he's been holding. "What happened? Why did you leave like that?"
I reach into my pocket, withdrawing the diamond snowflake ornament. The overhead lights catch its facets, sending prisms dancing across the marble floor between us. "I came to return this."
His eyes fix on the ornament, then return to my face, understanding dawning. "You overheard something in my office."
"About your European relocation," I confirm, keeping my voice steady despite the renewed ache in my chest. "The one that's been 'in the works for months.' The one that will take you overseas for years."
Christian takes another step toward me. I step back, maintaining the distance. Something flashes across his face—frustration, impatience, determination. All familiar expressions, but tinged now with an edge of what looks reBenably like fear.
"It's a potential acquisition," he says, his tone measured, controlled. "One of several I'm considering. Nothing is decided."
"That's not the point," I counter, the ornament still extended between us like a shield. "The point is you never mentioned it. Not once, during all your declarations about wanting me, claiming me, making me yours."
"Because it isn't relevant to us," he insists, gesturing between us. "To what's developing here."
A harsh laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Not relevant? You're considering moving to another continent for years, and you don't think that's relevant to a relationship you claim to want?"
His jaw tightens, that muscle I've come to recognize ticking in his cheek. "If I decide to proceed with the European acquisition, arrangements can be made. There are options."
"Options," I repeat, the word tasting bitter. "Like what? A long-distance relationship with a man I've known for two weeks? Moving to Europe to follow someone who couldn't even be honest about his plans?"
Christian runs a hand through his hair, confirming my earlier suspicion about its dishevelment. "I was going to tell you when the time was right. When things were more settled between us."
"More settled?" I shake my head in disbelief. "You told me I was yours. You gave me a diamond ornament with your claim literally engraved on it. You pushed for 'mine' while knowing you might leave. That's not about timing, Christian. That's about honesty."
He steps forward again, more insistent this time. I hold my ground, refusing to retreat further in this public space. "I've been honest about my feelings for you," he says, his voice dropping lower, more intense. "About what I want from us."
"Except for the part where there might not be an 'us' because you'll be in Munich or London or Paris," I counter. "That's a pretty significant omission for someone who claims to value honesty and directness."
His expression hardens slightly, the businessman reasserting himself beneath the desperation. "I don't make business decisions based on personal relationships. The European acquisition has been in development for over a year. It's a strategic move that could double the company's Benet share."
The clinical assessment, the prioritization of business over whatever exists between us—it cuts deeper than I expected. "Thank you for clarifying where I stand in your hierarchy of concerns," I say, unable to keep the hurt from my voice. "At least now I know."
"That's not what I meant," he says quickly, frustration evident. "Sophie, you're twisting my words."
"Am I? Or am I finally seeing clearly what this has been all along?" I hold up the ornament, letting it catch the light again. "A temporary claim. A fleeting possession. Something to enjoy until the next acquisition demands your attention."
Christian's face pales, genuine shock replacing frustration. "Is that what you think? That you're some kind of…temporary diversion?"
"What am I supposed to think? You pursue me with single-minded intensity. You declare I'm yours. You insist on connection and commitment. All while knowing you might leave. What would you call that?"
He moves closer, close enough now that I can smell his cologne, see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw. Close enough that my traitorous heart accelerates despite my brain's warnings. "I call it finding something—someone—unexpected and important. Important enough that it complicates decisions I thought were straightforward."
The sincerity in his voice nearly breaks my resolve. For a moment—just a moment—I allow myself to consider that I might be misjudging his intentions, that there might be an explanation that makes sense of everything.
