But then he continues: "The European deal isn't final. If it happens, we can arrange something workable. My jet can cross the Atlantic in hours. You could visit regularly. Eventually, perhaps relocate your business?—"
And just like that, my wavering resolve hardens again. Always the strategist, always the one making plans and arrangements, expecting others to fall in line with his vision. "Do you hear yourself?" I interrupt. "You're already planning how to fit me into your life decisions—decisions you made without consulting me, without even informing me they existed."
"Because they're not final!" he repeats, exasperation creeping into his tone. "Sophie, you're overreacting to incomplete information. If you'd just listen?—"
"Overreacting?" The word hits like a slap. "Is that what you call it when someone expects basic honesty from a person they're becoming involved with?"
His expression shifts, realizing his mistake too late. "That's not what I meant."
"It's exactly what you meant," I say, suddenly exhausted by all of it—the arguing, the hurt, the effort of maintaining my composure in this public place. "You thought you could control this situation like you control everything else. Decided what information I needed, when I needed it. Made plans that affect us both while only consulting yourself."
I step forward, placing the diamond ornament in his hand, curling his fingers around it when he doesn't immediately take it. "I won't be managed or controlled, Christian. Not even by someone I was starting to fall for."
The past tense—"was"—lands between us with deliberate weight. His fingers tighten around the ornament, knuckles whitening with the pressure.
"Sophie," he says, my name emerging like a plea. "Don't do this. Not without hearing me out completely."
"I've heard enough," I tell him, stepping back, creating distance again. "I hope your European acquisition works out exactly as you've planned. I hope the next woman you decide to claim gets the full disclosure I didn't."
I turn to leave, my composure fracturing with each step toward the exit. Behind me, I hear Christian call my name again, more commanding this time. The voice that expects to be obeyed, that demands attention, that refuses to be ignored.
I keep walking.
For once in his charmed, controlled existence, Christian Hawthorne doesn't get what he wants. Doesn't get to explain away his omissions or strategize a solution or rearrange reality to suit his preferences. For once, someone walks away from him instead of toward him.
The cold December air hits me like a physical blow as I push through the revolving doors, snow still falling in thick flakes that cling to my hair, my eyelashes, my coat. I walk blindly, vision blurred by tears I refuse to shed until I'm safely alone. Away from the doorman's curious gaze, away from the possibility of Christian following me, away from the man who made me feel precious and valued while withholding information that directly impacted our potential future.
Behind me, the gleaming tower of Hawthorne Enterprises rises against the winter sky, a monument to ambition and calculation and control. A reminder of everything Christian is—and everything I was foolish enough to think might be compatible with who I am, what I need, what I deserve.
I keep walking, snow covering my tracks, erasing the path back to him.
Chapter
Thirteen
CHRISTIAN
She walks away.Sophie Winters—the woman I've pursued with single-minded determination, the woman who's occupied my thoughts for weeks, the woman I'm falling for against all logic and precedent—simply turns and walks out the door. And for perhaps the first time in my adult life, I'm frozen in place, unable to immediately act, to control, to command. The diamond ornament digs into my palm where I'm clutching it too tightly, its edges sharp against my skin. Physical pain that barely registers compared to the unfamiliar ache spreading through my chest as I watch her disappearing figure through the glass doors.
"Mr. Hawthorne?" The doorman's voice breaks through my stunned immobility. "Are you all right, sir?"
The question snaps me back to reality. I stride toward the exit, shoving the ornament into my pocket. "Call my car. Now."
But as I reach the revolving door, I see a group of men in suits approaching the entrance—the board members arriving for our quarterly review meeting. A meeting I personally scheduled, that cannot proceed without me, that involves decisions worth billions to Hawthorne Enterprises and its shareholders.
A meeting that suddenly means absolutely nothing compared to finding Sophie.
"Christian!" Harold Blackwell, the board chairman, greets me as they enter. "Unusual to find you in the lobby. Not escaping before our meeting, are you?" He laughs at his own joke, oblivious to my state of mind.
"Family emergency," I lie without hesitation. "I need to?—"
"Nonsense," Harold interrupts, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Whatever it is can wait an hour. The Munich team is conferenced in already. The London office has adjusted their schedules. We need to make decisions about the European expansion today."
The European expansion. The very thing Sophie overheard about. The thing I failed to mention to her, not because I was hiding it but because it seemed irrelevant to what was developing between us—a business possibility, not a certainty, certainly not a priority over her.
But she doesn't know that. Because I didn't tell her.
"Mr. Hawthorne, your car is on its way," the doorman announces.
