The door closed behind her.
I stayed where I was, the table still warm beneath my palms. Anger flared first—quick and sharp, a reflex I knew well. At her softness. Her blindness. Her refusal to see what was right in front of her.
It burned itself out fast.
What followed had more weight. It pressed in slowly, filling the space the anger left behind.
We’d make up. We always did. Time would smooth the edges, and I’d reach for her again, the way I always did—choosing her even when it cost.
And we’d fight about this again. I already knew that, too.
Because next time, when the words came out wrong and she walked away, I’d remember this moment. The sound of the door. The way my chest went hollow afterward.
And it would hurt.
It always did.
Chapter 2
***
Later that week, the pressure around Falkirk only intensified.
The conference room looked like an autopsy table.
Between us lay the final slides—color-coded, perfect margins, a presentation polished past life. Fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, clinical and unsparing, their hiss skimming my nerves.
“This isn’t going to go well,” Jennifer said, snapping her tablet shut.
The projections were airtight. The story clean. And still, every slide read like an apology dressed as strategy—one I already knew wouldn’t survive the room.
Sarah poked her head through the doorway. “They’re starting to arrive.”
“Bring them in,” I said, with a brightness I didn’t feel.
A flicker of sympathy crossed her face before she disappeared down the hall.
I reached for the water glass and took a sip. It caught halfway down. The burgundy suit felt tighter than it had that morning. The gold chain at my throat weighed more than it should have. The room narrowed, inch by inch.
Staged precision gleamed from every surface—water glasses aligned in stiff formation, chairs spaced with mathematical care.
Then came the footsteps.
Expensive shoes on marble.
Elion’s long-time investors filed in like a procession, leather briefcases in hand, polite half-smiles that never warmed. Perfume mingled with the faint ozone of the projector, something sterile and sweet.
At the head of the table, the remote slick against my palm, I began.
“Ladies and gentlemen, I know there are concerns about Elion’s trajectory. I’m here to show you why we’re positioned for expansion, not limitation.”
Keith Harrison—broad, relaxed in his confidence—settled back in his chair. “Your numbers have plateaued for three quarters, Emma. What makes you think this isn’t your ceiling?”
Ceiling.
“Because we haven’t scratched the surface of our market,” I said, leaning forward. “With the right capital infusion—”
A rustle moved through the table. Not agreement.
