She nods once, then turns and walks toward the street where several taxis wait for fares. I watch her go, fighting every instinct to follow, to maintain contact, to ensure she doesn't disappear again. Giving her the space she's requested feels like fighting gravity—unnatural, contrary to fundamental forces. But necessary if I want any chance of rebuilding what my omission has damaged.
My phone buzzes. Harold Blackwell again, undoubtedly in a state of apoplexy over my instructions to cancel the European discussions. I silence it without looking. The business empire can wait. For the first time in my life, something—someone—matters more than Hawthorne Enterprises and its continued expansion.
I return to my car, snow soaking through my suit, cold finally registering now that the adrenaline of finding Sophie is subsiding. Four hours until her shop closes. Four hours to prepare what I'll say, how I'll explain, how I'll convince her that despite my significant misstep, what's developing between us is worth pursuing. Worth fighting for. Worth adjusting my carefully ordered existence to accommodate and prioritize.
As I drive toward my penthouse to change and collect my thoughts, one certainty solidifies with crystalline clarity: I cannot lose Sophie Winters. Not to a misunderstanding, not to my own compartmentalized thinking, not to fear—hers or mine.
Which means, for the first time in my life, I need to be completely, unstrategically honest about what I want, what I feel, what I'm prepared to sacrifice to keep her in my life.
Six o'clock can't come soon enough.
I arrive at Winter Wishes at 5:55, parking my Bentley directly in front of the shop despite the no-parking zone. Five minutes early, as is my habit, but I wait in the car, watching through the window as Sophie helps the last few customers. She moves with grace despite her obvious tiredness, wrapping purchases with care, offering genuine smiles that don't quite reach her eyes. Even from this distance, I can see the strain our confrontation has placed on her. The knowledge that I'm responsible for her distress sits like lead in my stomach—an unfamiliar weight of regret that no business misstep has ever created. At precisely six, she flips the sign to 'Closed' and begins turning off some of the display lights. My cue to approach, to attempt the most important negotiation of my life. One where all my usual tactics—control, leverage, strategic advantage—must be abandoned in favor of something I've rarely offered: unvarnished truth.
The bell above the door chimes as I enter, announcing my presence. Sophie looks up, her expression carefully neutral as she continues counting the register. A middle-aged woman—the last customer—glances between us with undisguised curiosity.
"We're closed," Sophie tells the woman gently. "But I can ring you up quickly if you've made your selection."
"Oh, I was just browsing," the woman replies, her gaze still darting between Sophie and me, clearly sensing the tension. "I'll come back tomorrow."
I step aside to let her pass, maintaining a respectful distance from Sophie as the door closes behind the customer. For a moment, we simply look at each other across the shop, the space between us filled with unspoken words and rawer emotions than I'm accustomed to acknowledging.
"You came," she says finally, her tone giving away nothing.
"I said I would." I remain near the door, allowing her control of the space, the distance, the terms of this conversation. Another concession to her needs rather than my instincts.
She finishes with the register, securing the day's earnings in the small safe beneath the counter. Her movements are precise, practiced, a routine that requires no thought, allowing her mind to remain on our impending discussion. "Let's go upstairs," she suggests, gesturing toward the back of the shop. "I don't want to have this conversation where anyone walking by can see us."
I nod, following as she leads me through the workroom and up the narrow staircase to her apartment. The space is exactly as I remember from when I picked her up for the gala—small but warm, filled with personal touches that speak to her creativity and heart. Christmas lights strung around the windows cast a soft glow over the living area. The diamond snowflake ornament is noticeably absent from where it sat on her dresser during my previous visit.
"Would you like tea?" she offers, a gesture of politeness rather than genuine hospitality.
"No, thank you," I reply, remaining standing though she indicates I should sit. I've rehearsed this conversation for hours, considered every approach, every possible response. Now that the moment has arrived, all that careful planning seemsinadequate, insufficient for the task at hand. "Sophie, I owe you an apology."
She raises an eyebrow, clearly surprised by my directness. "For which part?"
"For not telling you about the European possibilities," I begin, forcing myself to maintain eye contact despite the unfamiliar discomfort of admitted failure. "For compartmentalizing in a way that excluded you from information that affects you. For assuming I knew best what you needed to know and when."
She sits on the edge of her sofa, watching me with that perceptive gaze that seems to see through every defense. "Why are you really here, Christian? To explain? To apologize? To convince me to give you another chance?"
"All of those," I admit. "But mostly to tell you the truth. The complete truth."
"I'm listening," she says, her posture still guarded but her expression softening fractionally.
I take a deep breath, abandoning my prepared speech in favor of raw honesty. "I've spent my entire adult life building Hawthorne Enterprises. Every decision, every acquisition, every expansion has been calculated to increase security, control, success. I thought that was what mattered. What would fill the emptiness left when I lost everything at seventeen."
Her eyes widen slightly at my reference to my parents' death, the formative loss I've rarely discussed with anyone.
"Then I met you," I continue, the words coming easier now, flowing from a place of honesty I rarely access. "And suddenly the empire, the control, the endless pursuit of more—it all seemed…hollow. Insufficient. For the first time, I found myself wanting something—someone—that can't be acquired through strategic planning or financial leverage."
"So I'm a novel challenge?" she asks, but the question lacks the bite it might have held earlier.
"No," I correct her firmly. "You're the woman who made me realize I've been pursuing the wrong things. Building an empire that means nothing if I have no one to share it with. No one who matters more than the next deal, the next acquisition, the next expansion."
I move closer, not crowding her but needing to reduce the physical distance between us. "The European deal has been in development for over a year. It's a significant opportunity for Hawthorne Enterprises—financially, strategically, globally. And when I walked out of that board meeting today, when I told Harold to cancel everything, I felt…relief."
"Relief?" she echoes, confusion evident.
"Relief that I might not lose you," I clarify. "That I might have a chance to explain, to fix what I damaged. In that moment, I realized a fundamental truth: none of it—not the European expansion, not Hawthorne Enterprises, not the entire empire I've built—means anything compared to what I feel for you."
