"I bought her company," I admit flatly. "To protect her from her exploitative boss."
Joffrey closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose, a gesture I've seen him deploy during particularly frustrating board meetings.
"Please tell me," he says carefully, "that you discussed this acquisition with her first. That you explained your reasoning and obtained her consent before deploying significant financial resources to restructure her entire professional life."
My silence is answer enough.
"Thrall." His voice carries a level of disappointment I haven't heard since I accidentally crashed the entire server networkduring a poorly conceived coding experiment in my early twenties. "You absolute fool."
"I was helping," I mutter, hating how defensive I sound.
"You were controlling," Joffrey corrects. "There's a significant difference. Romee spent years under Richard's thumb, being told what to do and how to think and what she was worth. She finally escaped that dynamic. And your response was to immediately recreate it with better funding."
"That's not—" I start, but the protest dies in my throat because it's what I did.
I just did it with pure intentions and superior resources.
Which somehow makes it worse.
The irony is so perfectly, devastatingly clear that I can't even argue against it. I'd told myself I was being noble, that stepping in to acquire her company was an act of protection, a demonstration of my power deployed in her favor. But Joffrey's words have stripped away that convenient narrative, exposing the truth underneath: I'd simply exchanged one controlling force for another. Richard had wielded his position as her boss like a weapon. I'd wielded mine like a sword with a better edge.
And worse, I'd done it without asking. Without consulting her. Without treating her like the sharp, capable woman she is, someone whose voice and consent should matter more than my bank account or my certainty that I knew what was best for her.
The taste of it sits bitter in my mouth, worse than any failure I've experienced in the business world.
"She's leaving," Joffrey repeats gently. "If you want to fix this, you need to move fast. And you need to actually listen to what she's telling you instead of assuming you know better."
I'm on my feet before he finishes speaking, the chair scraping back and echoing through the cabin. My massive frame unfolds from the desk where I'd been sitting for the better part of an hour, wrestling with what Joffrey has just laid bare. Everyinstinct screams at me to move, to act, todo something, because standing still while Romee walks out of my life is not an option I'm prepared to entertain.
"Thrall," Joffrey calls after me, his voice cutting through the fog of urgency clouding my thinking. "Don't try to stop her. Don't throw money at the problem. Don't use your size or your position or whatever other leverage you think will work."
I pause at the threshold, my hand gripping the doorframe hard enough that the wood creaks under the pressure.
"Just... apologize," he continues, and there's something almost pitying in his tone now. "Like an actual person instead of a CEO. Like someone who understands that what you did was wrong, regardless of how good your intentions were. That's what she needs to hear."
I nod once, sharp and definitive, not trusting myself to speak. If I open my mouth right now, I might say something that makes this worse, some blustering, arrogant attempt to justify myself. And Joffrey is right—that's the last thing she needs from me.
Instead, I head out into the fading afternoon light, the sun casting long shadows across the grounds as I move toward her cabin with purpose, my heart pounding harder than it ever has in a boardroom.
Romee's cabin is at the far end of the property, tucked into the trees with a view of the lake. I can see her through the window, moving with sharp, angry efficiency as she folds clothes and organizes toiletries, every movement radiating hurt and determination.
I knock, the sound sharp and deliberate against the wooden door.
The movement inside stops abruptly. I can hear her breathing, ragged and controlled, she's trying to compose herself, which means she's been crying. The knowledge sits like a stone .
"Go away, Thrall," she calls out, her voice muffled by the door and thick with anger. There's something else there too, beneath the fury—hurt, raw and unguarded in a way I've never heard from her.
"No," I answer simply, my voice steady despite the chaos churning inside me. I press my palm flat against the wood, and I can feel the tremor running through the frame.
"I don't want to talk to you right now."
"I know. But I need to talk to you. Please." The word sits foreign on my tongue, please, something I rarely say, something that requires a vulnerability I've spent years training out of myself.
Silence stretches between us, heavy and suffocating. I can almost feel her deliberating on the other side of that barrier, weighing whether to let me in or stand her ground. Given everything that's happened, I deserve the door to remain closed.
Then footsteps, sharp, decisive, and the door swings open.
Romee stands in the gap, still wearing my t-shirt beneath her blazer, the fabric swallowing her frame in a way that makes something primal and possessive surge through my veins. Her eyes are red-rimmed and swollen from crying, and the fury blazing in them is so focused, so singularly aimed at me, that I almost step back.
