Her voice is barely audible. “Real for who?”
The question lands like a knife. “For me,” I admit, and the words cost every bit of control I strain to keep. “It became real for me, April.”
April shakes her head, tears sliding now, silent and furious. “You’re lying.”
“I was afraid,” I say, and the confession tastes like blood. “Afraid of developing feelings for you before this, because I knew what it would do to me. And it happened anyway.”
She looks at me like she wants to believe me and hates me for making her want to.
“I didn’t want to make you feel trapped,” I rasp.
Her laugh is wet. Bitter. “So you announced it to the board instead.”
“I had to secure my position,” I snap back, then immediately regret the edge in my tone when her face falls. I soften, forcing my voice into something steadier. “April?—”
She wipes her cheek angrily, like the tears offend her. “Don’t,” she says. “Don’t use that voice.”
I exhale hard, mind scrambling for solutions, for leverage, for something I can put on the table that makes this make sense to her. The old instincts kick in. Money. Contracts. Guarantees. “If you agree,” I say too quickly, “I can amend the terms. More compensation. Anything you want. Name it?—”
The words leave my mouth, and I realize instantly what I’ve done.
April’s eyes go wide, then narrow into something deadly.
“Moremoney?” she repeats, voice trembling with rage. “That’s what you think fixes this?”
“I’m trying to?—”
“You’re trying to buy me,” she spits.
“No.”
“Yes,” she says, stepping back as if I’ve contaminated the air. “You don’t even hear yourself. I’m standing here telling you I’m hurt, and you’re offering me a bigger number.”
I take a step toward her. “April—please.”
Her chin lifts, tears still falling, but her voice is clear as glass. “I don’t want more money from you,” she says. “I never wanted more money.”
My chest tightens.
“I wantedyou,” she whispers harshly, and it’s the worst thing she could say because it’s the truest thing either of us has admitted out loud. My chest caves in, ripping the air out with it.
I stand there, stunned into silence, watching her break her own heart in real time.
April shakes her head once, like she’s trying to dislodge the feeling. “You don’t get to do this,” she says. “You don’t get to decide my life in a boardroom.”
“I wasn’t deciding your life,” I insist, voice raw. “I was protecting?—”
“You were protecting yourself,” she cuts in, and the accusation lands because it’s not entirely wrong.
Her hand goes to her stomach, a protective reflex, and something in my body panics at the sight of it.
Then she turns for the door.
“April,” I say, and it comes out too sharp, too desperate.
She doesn’t look back.
She yanks the door open and storms out, leaving my office, leavingmewith the taste of my own mistake still burning on my tongue.
