"My boss called." Her voice cracks, and a tear tracks down her cheek. "There's a problem with the Harmon merger. They need me back early."
Everything inside me goes cold. The air in the cabin feels too thin. "When?"
"Tomorrow." She swipes at her tears angrily, knocking my hands away. "I tried to tell her I need the full two weeks, but she said if I don't come back early, they'll have to bring in someone else. And if they do that—"
"You'll lose the account."
She nods. Another tear tracks down her cheeks, and her breathing goes shallow and fast. "I know it's stupid. I know I should just tell her no. But Cash, I've spent fifteen years building this career. If I walk away now—"
"What was it all for?" The words taste like acid. I lower my hands. "All the sacrifices. All the years you gave up everything else."
"All the years I gave up you," she whispers.
I feel her confession like a fist around my heart. For a long moment, oxygen won't reach my lungs. The cabin feels too small, her pain too big to contain.
Finally, I step back, giving her space she doesn't want. My pulse hammers against my ribs hard enough to bruise. "So you're leaving."
"I don't have a choice."
"Don't tell me you don't." My voice is low, vibrating with a heat that mirrors the tightness in my frame. "Every time you walk away, it's a decision. You're just prioritizing their expectations over your own happiness. And over us."
"That's not fair—"
"Isn't it?" I close the distance again, backing her against the counter. "They worked you into a collapse, then sent you here torestore yourselfso they could work you into the ground again. And this is what you're doing now."
"You don't understand." Her arms tighten around her ribs, knuckles white where they grip the shirt. "This is my life. My career. I can't just walk away because—"
"Because what? Because you're afraid?" My palms hit the counter on either side of her hips, caging her in. "You only matter to them when you're useful. The second you stop producing, they'll replace you."
She flinches like I slapped her. "You think I don't know that?"
"Then why are you going back?"
"Because if I don't, what was it all for? What do I even have left?" Her voice breaks, and her breathing hitches. "Half a lifetime of sacrifice. If I walk away now, it means I wasted all those years on something that didn't matter."
"Or it means you're finally brave enough to admit it never did."
The truth in my words shows on her face. She stares at me with wide, wet eyes, and I watch understanding settle into her bones. Her breathing slows. Her shoulders drop half an inch.
"I'm scared," she whispers.
"I know." My voice is rough in my throat. “We're doing this together." I brush a tear from her cheek. "But if you board that plane, I'm not giving you another two decades. My patience is gone, and so is the lie that this doesn't matter." Speaking the truth, I feel the words like physical things. "The terrifying part is knowing I could lose you because of a job that wants to drain you until there’s nothing left."
Her breath catches. Stops. Restarts. "I don’t know what I am without that job.”
"Everything, Sloane. You're everything to me. You always have been. And I'll be damned if I let you walk away again without knowing that."
She tries to speak, but the words fail her, leaving only the silent trail of new tears. Her fingers dig into my wrists, anchoring herself to the hands still cupping her face as if I’m the only thing keeping her upright.
Her pulse is a drumbeat against my thumbs. Her breathing is shallow and fast. I watch the war playing out behind her eyes, the duty versus want, fear versus hope, the life she built versus the life she's been too afraid to choose.
"I need time to think," she says finally.
"How much time?"
"I don't know."
My hands drop from her face. I step back, giving her the space she keeps asking for, and my ribs ache with the loss of contact. "Okay. You want time? Take tonight. But tomorrow morning, you're going to have to decide. Because I'm done watching you disappear."
