RUTH
The sun poured through the cracked windowpane of the cramped studio apartment, catching the flecks of gold in Ruth's eyes as she adjusted her laptop screen.
She had a spreadsheet open — a dozen tabs in the background — and three internship applications almost finished.
She was exhausted.
But she felt alive.
Mirabel plopped onto the bed, phone in hand, a smirk on her face. "Tell me you didn't just apply to Sterling Holdings."
Ruth glanced at her. "Why not?"
"Because it's Sterling Holdings, babe. You need a connect. You don't just waltz in."
Ruth shut her laptop. "Then I'll break a window."
Mirabel laughed. "I swear, you're becoming dangerous."
"I have to be," Ruth said simply. "I'm tired of surviving."
Mirabel's smile softened. "You really doing okay though?"
Ruth paused, then nodded. "Better than before. I'm learning how to play the game."
Truth was — she had started volunteering with a local women's advocacy center just two weeks ago. It wasn't paid, but it gave her connections. She met someone at a networking event who knew someone at a branch of Sterling Holdings. And she'd sent in her resume with a bold cover letter — one that told her story, her pain, her hunger.
"I'm going to get in," Ruth said quietly. "Not because I have money. But because I'm smart. And I'm relentless."
Mirabel raised a brow. "And a little scary when you talk like that."
Ruth laughed.
But behind the smile, her hands trembled slightly.
Because this wasn't just about making it.
It was about becoming someone no one could crush again.
---
MIRABEL
She watched Ruth closely that evening.
There was something new in her — steel under skin, fire in her words.
Mirabel always knew Ruth was strong, but this?
This was the birth of a woman with a mission.
Still, she worried. About how much Ruth was keeping in. About the darkness she carried from her past. About what would happen if the world chewed her up again.
"Hey," she said gently. "Just promise me... when you get in — to Sterling or wherever — you won't forget yourself."
Ruth looked at her, and for a moment, her face softened. "I won't forget you either."
They held that silence for a beat. Two girls. One room. A thousand dreams. And too many scars to count.
___
MICHAEL
The day had dragged. Meetings blurred into each other with the same old faces parroting numbers and projections. Michael Stirling sat in his high-backed leather chair, the dim glow of the setting sun streaking golden lines across the polished surface of the long mahogany table.
He was quiet, unusually so.
His assistant had long gone, and the boardroom was empty now, save for the faint hum of the AC and the sound of his pen tapping against a report. On paper, everything was thriving. Profits up. Partners pleased. But inside, something in him was quietly unraveling.
Alexander.
That name alone was enough to stall his breath. His son. His only living connection to Rameena. The boy was barely crawling yet had the same wild eyes as his mother—eyes that haunted him more than they comforted. Sometimes he could still hear Rameena's laughter, soft and musical, echoing off the walls of their once beautiful home. And sometimes, her scream.
Michael shut the file and rose from the chair slowly, as if each movement needed permission from his conscience. Jacket on. Tie loosened. He exited the building without fanfare, stepping into the back of his waiting black sedan.
By the time he arrived home, night had sunk its claws into the sky. The mansion was quiet, except for the distant lullaby sound of Alexander's nanny singing in the nursery.
And Elliot.
He was waiting at the top of the staircase.
Lean. Tall. Beautiful in a cold, dangerous way. His black shirt was unbuttoned at the top, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, and his eyes gleamed like polished onyx beneath the chandelier light.
"You're late," Elliot said, voice smooth and sharp like velvet over a blade.
Michael loosened his tie further, sighing. "The board wanted a full rundown of the Q2 strategy."
Elliot walked down two steps slowly, his gaze raking over Michael like he owned him. "You've been distant lately."
Michael didn't answer. He passed him instead, heading toward the bar in the living room. The clink of glass and the soft pour of scotch filled the silence between them.
"I miss us," Elliot said, now standing by the archway, arms folded. "Or was I just a phase in your grief?"
Michael sipped his drink, the burn doing nothing to dull the weight in his chest. "You were never just anything, Elliot. You knew what this was."
Elliot was behind him now. "But it's changing, isn't it?"
The air grew tight.
Elliot's arms slid around Michael's waist from behind, lips brushing his ear. "You're slipping from me, Michael. I can feel it. You hesitate. You flinch when I touch you. You stay longer at work. What are you running from? The ghost of your wife or the truth of what we are?"
Michael didn't answer. His body stiffened beneath Elliot's touch.
"I gave you space," Elliot whispered. "But I won't be discarded."
In one motion, he turned Michael around, pressing him against the wall with force that was both possessive and practiced. His lips crashed against Michael's in a kiss that demanded rather than asked. Michael kissed back, but it lacked the fire of before. It was automatic, lifeless.
Elliot pulled away, searching his eyes. "You can't do this. You don't get to choose now. I stayed. I covered for you. I gave up everything for you. You made promises."
Michael gritted his teeth. "And I'm still here, aren't I?"
"But for how long?" Elliot hissed, grabbing the glass from Michael's hand and slamming it onto the table. It didn't break, but the sound cracked the silence like a gunshot.
He stared at Michael, jaw clenched, chest heaving. "I won't lose you. Not to guilt. Not to a memory. Not to that damn child."
A flash of something dangerous crossed Michael's face. "Don't talk about my son."
Elliot's eyes narrowed. "Then start acting like you're still mine. Or I'll make sure your world burns before you walk away."
Michael didn't reply. He stepped back, looking at the man before him—his lover, his secret, his mistake.
And for the first time… he was afraid.