"And the European deal?" I press, needing clarity. "You really told them to cancel everything?"
"Yes." No hesitation. "Harold Blackwell has probably called an emergency meeting to discuss my mental health," he adds with a hint of that dry humor I've come to appreciate. "But I meant what I said. If it comes down to choosing between business expansion and you, there is no choice."
I think about the night at his penthouse—decorating his tree, his rare laughter during dinner, the diamond ornament with my name and that single word. Mine. The memory shifts in light of his confession today, transforming from possessiveness to something deeper. Not about ownership but about connection. About a man who lost everything once, who built walls and empires to prevent it happening again, making the terrifying choice to be vulnerable again. With me.
"How would we even do this?" I ask, practical still but softer now. "If I gave you another chance. If we tried to make this work."
He shifts, moving from kneeling to sitting beside me on the sofa, still holding my hand like it's an anchor in a storm. "However we both want," he says. "I have homes in several cities. Private jets. The ability to work from anywhere when necessary. You have a successful business here, one that matters to you. We find compromise. Create solutions together rather than separately."
"The Christian Hawthorne I've known doesn't compromise," I observe, watching his reaction carefully.
"The Christian Hawthorne you know has never had something—someone—worth compromising for," he counters, his honesty disarming me further. "You're changing me, Sophie. In ways I didn't expect but find I welcome."
The sincerity in his voice, in his expression, chips away at my defensive wall. I think about how quickly and completely I was falling for him before today—his intensity, his focus, his rare moments of vulnerability and humor. The way he looked at me like I mattered. Like I was essential rather than convenient. The way he's looking at me now, with hope and determination and that undercurrent of wanting that makes my pulse quicken despite my lingering hurt.
"I was so hurt today," I admit, my voice smaller than intended. "Hearing about Europe from your assistant. Thinking I was just temporary. Just convenient until you moved on."
Pain flashes across his face—genuine regret that touches me more than his words. "That was never true," he says. "Not for a moment. My failure was in not recognizing how my compartmentalized thinking would affect you. How it would appear from your perspective. I've spent so long keepingbusiness and personal separate that I didn't see how they intersect when someone matters as much as you do."
His thumb continues those small circles on my palm, the touch both comforting and electrifying. I find myself responding to it, my fingers curling more firmly around his.
"I've never done this before," he continues, the admission clearly costing him something. "Never allowed anyone to matter enough that business decisions had to consider their impact. Never had to balance ambition with connection. I'm learning, Sophie. I'll make mistakes. But I promise you this: I will always choose you. Always prioritize us over any deal, any expansion, any amount of power or wealth."
The promise hangs between us, weighted with significance. Part of me still wants to be cautious, to protect myself from potential hurt. But another part—the part that recognizes the rarity of what Christian is offering, the unprecedented vulnerability he's showing—wants to trust. To believe. To take the risk of opening myself to this connection that feels simultaneously so new and so fundamental.
"I don't expect you to trust me completely right away," Christian says, reading my hesitation with that uncanny perception he sometimes shows. "Trust has to be earned back. I understand that. I'm just asking for the chance to earn it. To show you through actions, not just words, that you matter more than anything else in my life."
I look at him—really look at him. The powerful CEO is still there in his perfect posture, his tailored suit, his commanding presence. But there's something new too, something I glimpsed at his penthouse and see more clearly now: a man capable of growth, of change, of putting someone else's needs above his own carefully laid plans. A man willing to kneel, to apologize, to prioritize connection over control.
"I was in love with you too," I admit, the words emerging as both confession and concession. "That's why it hurt so much today. Because it mattered. Because you matter."
Hope lights his eyes, transforming his usually stern features. "Present tense would be preferable," he says, a hint of his usual confidence returning. "But I'll take past progressive as a starting point."
The touch of humor, the familiar hint of arrogance—they make me smile despite myself. This is the Christian I was falling for: complex, commanding, occasionally infuriating, but with depths that few are privileged to see.
I reach up, tentatively touching his face, feeling the slight stubble along his jaw. A small gesture of reconnection, of possibility. "I'm not making any promises yet," I tell him. "Except that I'm willing to listen. To try. To see if we can rebuild what today damaged."
He turns his face slightly, pressing a kiss to my palm that sends warmth spreading up my arm, into my chest. "That's all I'm asking for," he says, his voice rougher than usual. "The chance to show you that you're not just a priority in my life, Sophie. You're the priority."
Something shifts between us in that moment—not forgiveness, not yet, but the beginning of healing. The possibility of something stronger emerging from today's hurt. The recognition that what we're building together might be worth fighting for, worth adjusting expectations for, worth the risk of vulnerability and potential pain.
"Would you have dinner with me tomorrow night?" he asks, the question surprisingly tentative from a man who usually commands rather than requests. "At your favorite restaurant, not mine. On your terms, not mine."
The concession—small but significant from someone like Christian—touches me more than grand gestures or dramaticdeclarations. It shows he's listening, learning, adjusting to create balance between us rather than domination.
"Yes," I agree, feeling something tight in my chest begin to loosen. "I'd like that."
His smile—rare, genuine, transformative—makes my breath catch. And despite my lingering caution, despite the walls I've tried to maintain today, I find myself smiling back. Hopeful, despite everything, that what's developing between us might be worth the risk of trust. Worth the vulnerability of letting someone matter enough that they can hurt you.
Worth believing in a Christmas promise from a man who rarely promises anything he can't absolutely guarantee.
Two days after Christian's confession in my apartment, life has settled into a strange new normal. We had dinner last night at Angelo's, my favorite local Italian restaurant—a far cry from the exclusive establishments Christian typically frequents. He seemed genuinely happy to be there, asking questions about which dishes I preferred, listening intently to stories about my grandmother bringing me there as a child. No business calls interrupted us, no mentions of European expansions or board meetings or acquisition strategies surfaced. Just two people reconnecting, rebuilding trust one conversation, one shared meal, one genuine laugh at a time. He kissed me goodnight at my door—gentle, respectful, with restrained heat that promised more when I was ready. I fell asleep thinking of that kiss, of the possibility growing between us again, stronger for having been tested.
The shop is busy today, holiday shoppers seeking last-minute gifts before Christmas arrives in less than a week. I've beenmoving non-stop since opening, wrapping packages, answering questions about ornament care, helping customers select the perfect pieces for their loved ones. The work is a comfort, familiar and grounding after the emotional turbulence of the past few days.
"That couple wants the custom family ornament with six names," Lily tells me, nodding toward an older pair examining tree toppers. "And Mrs. Henderson called to say she's coming in for another snow globe. Apparently the one she bought last week is now for her sister."
I smile, grateful for the normalcy of regular customers and holiday rush. "I'll start on the family ornament. Can you help the gentleman looking at the crystal angels?"
