The apologies poured out of her like water from a broken dam. She spoke of how she knew she had wronged him too late, all because of fear. She never meant to undermine his success. That her guarding against something that hadn't happened yet was her greatest mistake because despite everything, she still lived through those painful days of his absence. That his absence had hollowed out her world until nothing felt real or meaningful anymore.
James listened to her breakdown with an expression that revealed nothing. It was surreal, watching the mighty Victoria Sharp fall apart in his living room, this woman who had commanded boardrooms and built empires reduced to tears and desperate pleas. Part of him ached at the sight of her pain, but he refused to let that weakness show.
When her words finally ran out, when she sat across from him trembling and tear-stained, James quietly fetched a glass of water from his kitchen. He set it before her without comment, then retrieved a box of tissues from a side table.
Victoria accepted both with a gratitude that seemed disproportionate to the simple gestures. She drank the water slowly, using the tissues to wipe away tears that seemed to have no end.
The silence stretched between them until James finally spoke, his voice carefully controlled. "Why did you do it?"
It was the first time she had heard his voice in over a month, and the familiar warmth of it nearly broke her composure all over again. She had dreamed of hearing him speak her name, had imagined conversations where he would tell her he understood, where he would forgive her and take her back into his arms.
"I was afraid you would leave me," she began, but James cut her off with a sharp gesture.
"No," he said, his voice harder now. "It wasn't fear of abandonment. It was because you couldn't bear to lose what you saw as your possession. You didn't want your possession developing a mind of its own and slipping from your grasp."
Victoria wanted to deny it, wanted to insist that he was wrong, that her feelings had been pure and her motives loving. But the words died in her throat because, deep down, she knew there was truth in his accusation. She had treated him like something that belonged to her, something to be controlled and managed rather than cherished and trusted.
"You're right," she whispered. "I'm sorry. I was wrong, and I'm sorry, and I'll do anything to earn your forgiveness. Anything, James. Just tell me what you need."
James studied her face for a long moment, and when he spoke, his voice was calm and final. "I forgive you, Victoria. I've already forgiven you and moved on. The only thing I need from you now is for you to leave and never appear in front of me again."
The words hit her like bullets, each one finding its mark with devastating precision. She watched him stand again, watched him move toward the door with the same terrible finality that had haunted her nightmares.
The fear that seized Victoria then was primal, overwhelming. The thought of him walking out of her life forever, of being separated from him again, sent her into a state of complete panic. Her tears began falling before she was even aware of them, and she found herself moving without conscious thought.
"James!" she cried, rushing after him. Her arms wrapped around him from behind, holding him with desperate strength as her body shook with the force of her sobs. "Please don't leave me. I beg you. Don't send me away. I can't... no, I won't be able to bear it. I will go insane."
Her confession poured out against his back, muffled by the fabric of his jacket but no less raw for its intimacy. She could feel the tension in his shoulders, could sense the way he held himself rigid against her touch.
For James, her embrace was torture. The familiar scent of her perfume, the feel of her arms around him, the sound of her voice breaking with emotion, it all conspired to resurrect feelings he had worked so hard to bury. But alongside the treacherous warmth came a surge of anger at her selfishness, at the way she could still try to manipulate him even in her desperation.
Good to know she hasn't changed, he thought bitterly. Even her breakdown was about what she needed, what she couldn't bear, what would drive her to madness. It was still all about her.
With more force than was perhaps necessary, James grabbed her wrists and yanked her arms away from his waist. He didn't look back as he resumed his walk to the door, each step feeling like he was tearing himself away from a part of his soul.
Victoria watched him go, watched the broad shoulders that had once been her refuge now turned away from her in rejection. His familiar scent, which had always brought her comfort and security, seemed to carry only coldness now. Even his silhouette, which she had traced with her eyes and her hands countless times, looked foreign and unreachable.
"James," she called out, reaching for him one last time.
But before her fingers could touch him again, the world began to tilt. Dark spots bloomed across her vision like ink stains, and she felt the ground rushing up to meet her as consciousness slipped away.
The sound of her collapse made James spin around, his anger temporarily forgotten in the face of genuine alarm. Victoria lay crumpled on his floor, her pale face turned toward him, tear tracks still visible on her cheeks.
He rushed to her side, dropping to his knees as he gently shook her shoulders. "Victoria? Victoria, wake up."
But she remained still, her breathing shallow, her face so pale it was almost translucent. As James looked down at her unconscious form, he realized with a shock that he barely recognized the woman before him. This wasn't the formidable Victoria Sharp who had commanded his respect and love. This was a ghost of that woman, hollowed out by whatever had driven her to his doorstep in such desperate condition.
The force to be reckoned with was gone, and in her place lay someone who looked breakable, someone who looked like she had already been broken.