Catherine bristled, defensive and tense. "I'm fine. Just tired."
Olivia studied her, her gentle eyes seeing far too much. "You're pulling away again."
Catherine inhaled sharply, frustration simmering. "I'm just busy."
Olivia shook her head, not backing down. "No, Catherine. Busy is an excuse, and you know it. You're pulling back—from us, from her, from everyone."
Catherine’s jaw tightened, her voice clipped and tight. "I don't have time to explain myself to you, Olivia."
Olivia's gaze didn’t waver, soft but persistent. "Maybe not. But maybe you need to start explaining it to yourself."
A long silence stretched between them, punctuated only by the distant hum of hospital noise outside the breakroom. Catherine's shoulders slumped slightly, her usual composure faltering.
"It’s more complicated than you think," Catherine finally said, voice quiet, eyes averted.
Olivia stepped closer, careful, as if approaching something fragile. "I'm sure it is. But complicated doesn’t have to mean impossible."
Catherine looked up sharply, something vulnerable flickering briefly in her eyes. "You don't understand, Olivia. Mother is right. I'm distracted. I’ve spent my whole life building this career. If I let go, even a little, what happens then? I lose everything."
Olivia shook her head, her voice gentle yet unwavering. "What if you gain something instead? What if you find out you're allowed to have more than a career and a family name?"
Catherine swallowed hard, her chest tight. "I’ve never been allowed to have anything else."
"Then maybe it's time to start allowing yourself to have this," Olivia whispered softly. "You deserve it, Catherine. And it's clear she makes you happy."
Catherine laughed bitterly, short and sharp. "Happiness is fleeting. It won't last. Not for someone like me."
Olivia frowned slightly, reaching out to lightly touch Catherine’s shoulder. "It won't last if you keep pushing it away. Believe it or not, you're allowed to be human."
Catherine didn't respond, the words settling uncomfortably inside her. Olivia pulled back her hand gingerly, her voice still gentle but stronger.
"Roz is right about one thing," Olivia added carefully. "Mother doesn't get to decide who you love. Only you do."
The words lingered, heavy and meaningful. Catherine met Olivia’s earnest gaze, the fight within her briefly visible before she managed to mask it again.
"Thank you, Olivia," Catherine said quietly, voice barely audible.
Olivia smiled softly, knowing better than to push further. "You don't have to do this alone. Remember that."
Catherine watched her sister leave, the door closing shut behind her with a soft click. Alone again, Catherine stared down at her cold coffee, Roz and Olivia's words echoing through her mind, pulling her in different directions.
She felt unsteady, trapped between two worlds—one she had always known and one that promised something softer, warmer, and frighteningly real.
But Evelyn's voice still lingered, ever-present, reminding her exactly what was at stake. Catherine straightened slowly, pushing down the brief surge of vulnerability. She knew what was expected of her. She had always known.
Yet the emptiness in her chest, sharp and relentless, made her wonder for the first time if she'd truly survive making the expected choice again.
Catherine sat alone in the quiet of her office, the fluorescent lights overhead crackling softly, the stark brightness harsh against her tired eyes. Outside, the darkness was punctuated only by scattered lights from nearby buildings, blurred by a steady drizzle that streaked across the windows like quiet tears.
She held her phone loosely in her hand, her thumb hovering uncertainly above Sloane’s name. The cursor blinked steadily in the empty message field, each flash a pulse marking the seconds as they slipped away. Catherine felt her heartbeat thud slowly, painfully, echoing a hollow rhythm she couldn’t escape.
She sighed quietly, finally tapping out the message:
“Busy. Can we reschedule dinner?”
Her thumb lingered hesitantly over the send button, a pang of guilt twisting uncomfortably in her chest. She closed her eyes briefly, inhaling deeply to steady herself before pressing send. It felt colder, somehow, than anything she’d ever done.
Immediately, regret gnawed at the edges of her composure. She stared at the now-sent message, her chest tightening. Her heart felt heavy, unbearably so.
