Then she does something cruel.
Her hand lifts, brushes along my jaw, slow and warm. The gesture is so gentle it almost undoes me. A thumb skimming across the edge of my mouth, like she’s soothing a wound she inflicted.
I close my eyes for a second too long. Breathe her in.
Then she takes a step back.
And she’s gone.
The doorway swallows her, and I’m left standing there with nothing but the ghost of her touch and the hollow echo of my own restraint. Her absence feels like withdrawal, like the oxygen leaving the room with her. But I don’t call out. Don’t follow.
She’s testing me. I know it.
She wants to see if I can handle it—if I can stand on my own two feet without anchoring myself to her shadow. And maybe that’s fair. Perhaps she needs to believe I won’t fall apart just because she’s not within reach.
So I let her go.
I walk to the parking lot alone, my hands in my coat pockets, the spring chill biting at my skin. I tell myself that passing this test means proving my love in silence, in patience. That if I hold steady now, she’ll see that I’m safe to love without apprehension.
But even as I repeat this lie, the truth surfaces beneath it.
We’ve been living inside a tentative truce since that day in the lecture hall. Since I touched her beneath a flickering screen and reminded her—and myself—that she’smine. Since the interview that she didn’t tell me about, and I pretended not to be hurt by it.
I found out, of course. It wasn’t hard. I still had access to her phone and glance at her calendar told me exactly who she was meeting. I rationalized that the end would justify the means. It was for her sake and I would do anything to secure the best outcome for her.
Caldwell Ventures is a major client of Castor & Wyatt. One call. One name-drop. That’s all it took.
I don’t even feel bad.
Why should I? Loving her doesn’t mean stepping aside—it means paving the road for her with whatever power I have.
She’s already shown me what she wants—maybe not in words, but in ways that matter. When she started adjusting her location preferences to New York, I understood it for what it was: a decisive shift toward a life built together, not apart. So when it came to Castor & Wyatt, I assumed the same held true and Manhattan was her goal.
I never doubted she’d have options—offers from half the firms she interviewed with, if not more. But knowing this was the last application still pending and hearing the way she spoke about it, I knew it carried more weight. She never broadcasts her ambitions, but I see her clearly. And if a few words from me could get her across the line, I’m not going to stand by and do nothing.
She may not like it. But she deserves to win. And I’ll make sure she does.
By the time I reach the car, my hands are steady. My expression is resolute in the rearview mirror. But inside, I’m slowly unspooling, thread by silent thread.
I’ll wait for her goodnight text.
And, again, I’ll pretend that it’s enough.
My office is quiet,save for the soft rustle of paper beneath my fingertips and the muted hum of the city beyond the windows. The lamps cast a low light, enough to keep the shadows at bay without disrupting the stillness. It’s early evening, and I’ve been at this for hours.
My desk is a disaster—covered in loose sketches, stone certifications, artisan profiles, and mock-ups from the custom jeweler I’ve hired. In any other context, I’d be irritated by the disorder. But this chaos has purpose. It’s for her. No, it’s forus.
Designing the perfect engagement ring is a meticulous process. But it’s more than a distraction from Olivia’s absence—it’s a lifeline. Every hour she has chosen to spend apart has been poured into this project. It’s the only thing that dulls the ache. A reminder that she’s still coming back to me.
And it’s one that I desperatelyneed.
I sift through a folder of design notes, flipping to the page where I’ve taped a tiny photograph of a ruby—deep, vivid red, glowing like a drop of molten heart. Untreated. Four carats. Emerald cut. Burmese origin.
I didn’t understand most of it when my mother first said it. All I saw was its fire. Its clarity. The sheer conviction of it. It felt…honest. Like it didn’t need embellishment to be extraordinary.
It reminded me of Olivia.
Weeks ago, I noticed her wearing pearl earrings more often. A simple pair, elegant. Classic. It had been a gift from my mother. A Caldwell heirloom, passed down from grandmother to daughter-in-law, now passed to Olivia.
