The stars coming out one by one, cold and unbothered overhead.
And I make myself a promise.
Next time, if the universe is kind enough to put her in my path again…
I will not hesitate.
I will not fold.
I will not lose her.
Not even if it costs me everything else.
CHAPTER 53
THE COURAGE TO LET GO
RORIE
The smellof roasted coffee and city rain fills the morning air as I weave through the tables at our favorite café in SoHo. It’s early, but the place is buzzing with business suits nursing triple espressos, artists sketching in worn leather notebooks, tourists wide-eyed and overwhelmed.
Outside, the August rain slicks the streets in silver, puddles catching fragments of neon signs and taxi lights like scattered memories. New York beats with its usual pulse. Alive. Relentless.
It’s been a month since the Pitchpocalypse. A month since everything changed.
The Laurel Group walked away with the win, headlines celebrated, offers flooded in—and me? Well, I’m about to walk a different path.
I spot Laurel seated near the window, a perfect storm of poise and power in a coral blazer, her phone in one hand, a coffee in the other. She looks up the second I approach, studying me. She already knows what’s coming.
“You look like hell,” she says bluntly, setting her phone down. “Sit.”
I do, the chair scraping softly against the worn floorboards. I press my palms against the chipped wood of the table hoping it might secure me.
“I’m finishing the campaign closeouts this week,” I say quietly. “But after that... I’m resigning.”
A flicker of understanding crosses Laurel’s face. She leans back in her chair, folding her arms. “Why?”
“Because I can’t stay somewhere that only asks for the best parts of me without caring about the cracks. I’m tired of polishing a brand when I don't even recognize my own reflection anymore.” I pause. “Because it’s time”
She smiles at that.
“I spent years fighting for every inch in this industry. Every win. Every scrap of approval,” I say carefully. “But somewhere along the way, I stopped fighting for myself. I don’t know who I’m trying to impress anymore. I just know it’s not me.”
Laurel’s finger taps against her coffee cup. “Is this about Nolan?”
It is. And it isn’t.
“It’s about wanting more than survival,” I say. “It’s about not mistaking ambition for home.”
She watches me in a way she rarely does with her quiet, assessing, almost…proud expression.
“You’re good at this, Rorie,” she says after a long pause. “Better than most. Better than me, sometimes.”
“I don’t want to be good at this anymore,” I whisper.
And for the first time in a long time, the thought doesn’t terrify me. It feels like breathing again after being underwater too long.
Laurel nods once, decisive, like she respects the hell out of my decision even if she hates losing me.
