"That doesn't change the fact that you kept it from me," she says, finally turning to look at me. Her eyes are red-rimmed, though I see no tears now. Just hurt and anger carefully contained. "While pushing for something between us, while telling me I'm yours, you omitted information that directly impacts any potential future."
"Because I don't make personal decisions based on business possibilities," I explain, struggling to make her understand my compartmentalized thinking. "The European expansion is a business consideration. What's between us is separate. Personal. More important."
She laughs, the sound devoid of humor. "More important? You just left a board meeting about it to chase after me. Clearly, it's significant."
"I left because you are more important," I counter, leaning forward, willing her to see the sincerity in my expression. "I walked out on the board of directors, the Munich team, the London office—all waiting to make decisions worth billions—because finding you mattered more."
Her expression wavers slightly, uncertainty flickering across her features before she rebuilds her defensive wall. "That's not the point. The point is you didn't tell me. You didn't think I deserved to know about something that could take you to another continent for years."
"I was wrong," I admit, the words unfamiliar but necessary. "I should have told you. Should have recognized that what affects me affects you too, if we're building something together."
A dog walker passes nearby, glancing curiously at us—a man in a business suit and a woman in casual clothes, having an intense conversation on a park bench in the snow. Sophie notices the attention, her discomfort with the public nature of this discussion evident in her posture.
"I need to go," she says, standing abruptly.
I rise immediately, unwilling to let her walk away again. "Sophie, please. I called the board chairman while driving here. Told him to cancel everything—the European expansion, the relocation discussions, all of it."
This stops her. "You what?"
"None of it matters if I lose you," I tell her, the raw honesty feeling like exposure but also relief. "I built Hawthorne Enterprises to secure myself against loss, against being left with nothing again. But the company, the acquisitions, the endless expansion—they're means, not ends. I didn't realize that until today. Until you walked away."
Her eyes search mine, looking for deception, calculation, manipulation. Finding none. "You can't just cancel international business deals because we had a fight," she says, her practical nature asserting itself despite her anger.
"I just did," I reply simply. "They'll wait. The board, the European teams—they'll wait until I'm ready to revisit those options. With you fully informed. With your input considered."
"My input," she repeats skeptically. "On your corporate decisions."
"On decisions that affect us," I clarify. "If there's an 'us' to consider."
The question hangs between us, heavy with implication. Sophie glances around, increasingly uncomfortable with the public setting as more park visitors notice us, the well-dressed businessman and the local shopkeeper engaged in what's clearly an intense personal discussion.
"I can't do this here," she says, turning to walk along the path leading away from the lake.
I follow, unwilling to let distance form again. "Where, then? Your apartment? My penthouse? Name the place, Sophie. I'll go anywhere, do anything, to make this right."
"You think it's that simple?" she asks, her pace quickening. "That you can just decide I'm a priority now and everything is fixed?"
"No," I admit, keeping pace beside her. "But it's a start. The necessary first step."
She stops suddenly, turning to face me fully. "Why didn't you tell me about Europe, Christian? The real reason. Not your compartmentalized thinking or business strategies. The truth."
The directness of the question, the demand for complete honesty, forces me to examine motivations I've avoided acknowledging even to myself. "Because I was afraid," I admit, the confession feeling like stepping off a ledge without knowing what waits below. "Afraid that if you knew I might leave, you'd decide I wasn't worth the risk. Afraid of giving you a reason to walk away before we'd even truly begun."
Her expression softens fractionally, the first crack in her defensive armor. "So instead you gave me no choice in the matter? No information to make an informed decision?"
"I made a mistake," I tell her, stepping closer, emboldened by that small softening. "A significant one. But not because I don't value you or consider you temporary. The opposite. You matter enough that I was afraid of losing you."
A family with small children walks past, the parents openly staring at our intense exchange. Sophie notices, her discomfort with the public scrutiny returning. "I need to get back to the shop," she says, turning toward the park exit.
"I'll drive you," I offer immediately.
"No." Her refusal is firm. "I need space, Christian. Time to think without you…overwhelming everything."
"Sophie." I reach for her hand, not quite touching, giving her the choice to complete the connection. "Please. Don't walk away again."
She looks at our nearly touching hands, then at my face. What she sees there must affect her, because her expression shifts—still cautious, still hurt, but with a new awareness of my genuine distress. "I'll be at the shop," she says finally. "Come by when it closes. Six o'clock. We can talk then."
Relief floods through me, so powerful it's almost disorienting. "Thank you."
