But I can’t. We can’t. It’s too risky now that James is looking for ways to hurt me.
I give up on the spreadsheets and head to Lior’s office, needing to talk to someone who understands the weight of what we’ve done.
“Come in,” Lior calls when I knock. He looks up from his computer, taking in my expression. “How are you holding up?”
“It’s done,” I say, settling into the chair across from his desk. “Thatcher and I… We ended it.”
Lior’s expression softens. “Are you sure about this? Both of you?”
“I’m not sure about anything,” I admit, running a handthrough my hair. “But it was Thatcher’s choice. He can’t afford to lose his job, and I can’t ask him to sacrifice his security for me.”
“And you think this is temporary?”
“I hope it is.” The words come out more desperate than I intended. “If his publishing contract comes through, if he can follow his dreams…maybe then we can find a way. I just need to be patient, even if I don’t feel very patient right now.”
Lior studies my face for a long moment. “Do you want to work from my office for the rest of the day? Give yourself some space?”
The offer is tempting, but I shake my head. “I appreciate it, but I need to get used to being around him. If we’re going to make this work professionally, I can’t hide every time it gets difficult.”
“You’re torturing yourself.”
“Maybe. But it’s necessary torture.”
When I return to my office, Thatcher’s desk is empty. Panic flares briefly before I spot the note on my desk, written inhis familiar handwriting:
Even his notes are different now. Professional. Distant. No hearts, no doodles, no warmth. Just the facts.
I sink into my chair and stare at the note, already missing the chaos of his colorful communications. This morning, there were no sticky notes on my computer monitor, no cheerful reminders about meetings or encouragement about difficult calls. Just the stark efficiency of a professional assistant doing his job.
My phone buzzes with a text from James.
James:
Enjoying your victory, big brother? Don’t get too comfortable.
I ignore it, but the unease lingers. James isn’t done with us. I can feel it. But what more can he do?
I’m still staring at my phone when footsteps approach. Thatcher appears in my doorway, coffee in hand, his expression neutral.
“Your favorite,” he says, setting the cup on my desk.
“Thank you.” Our fingers brush as I take the cup, and the brief contact sends electricity up my arm. Thatcher’s breath catches slightly, and I know he felt it too.
For a moment, we look at each other. The air between us crackles with everything we can’t say, everything we’re trying to pretend we don’t feel.
“Will there be anything else, Mr. Dellcourt?” he asks, his voice professionally polite.
The formal address hurts more each time he uses it. “No, that’s all. Thank you.”
He nods and turns to leave, but pauses at the door. “Pierce?” he says softly, then catches himself. “I mean, Mr. Dellcourt. The Henderson call is in thirty minutes. Should Ipatch it through, or would you prefer to take it in the conference room?”
“My office is fine.”
“I’ll make sure you’re not disturbed.”
After he leaves, I stare at the closed door, already counting the minutes until I can see him again. This is going to be impossible. How am I supposed to work with him every day, watch him smile at other people, listen to his laugh in meetings, and pretend my heart isn’t breaking?
We made the right choice. I know we did. But knowing something is right doesn’t make it hurt any less.
