Two years didn't change everything.
They clarified it.
The company didn't collapse under shared leadership.
It expanded.
The restructuring model became a case study. Business schools referenced it. Industry panels debated it. Competitors quietly adopted parts of it.
And through all of it—
There was no singular shadow behind decisions anymore.
There was structure.
There was resilience.
There was trust.
I stood in the newly redesigned executive wing—glass walls replaced with warmer panels, collaborative spaces replacing isolated offices.
Not softer.
Smarter.
Arvan entered the room carrying two cups of coffee.
"You're staring at the ceiling like it owes you something," he said.
"I'm remembering when this place felt like a battlefield," I replied.
He handed me a cup.
"It was," he said. "We just stopped fighting each other."
I smiled faintly.
We didn't sit at opposite ends of tables anymore.
Sometimes we disagreed loudly.
Sometimes we overruled each other.
Sometimes we walked out of meetings frustrated.
But we always came back.
Not because of obligation.
Because of alignment.
Our engagement hadn't been rushed into a wedding.
We didn't need urgency to validate permanence.
Instead, we built rhythm.
Sunday mornings without phones.
Evening walks without strategy.
Conversations that weren't about performance.
Power no longer felt like something we were defending.
It felt like something we were directing.
Later that afternoon, I stood on stage at an industry summit.
Not introduced as "the CEO's partner."
Not framed through proximity.
Just my name.
Just my title.
Just my work.
When the applause filled the room, I didn't search for him immediately.
But when I did—
He was there.
Not in the spotlight.
Watching.
Proud.
Unthreatened.
That night, as we stood on the terrace of our apartment overlooking the city, he slipped his hand into mine.
"You don't feel like you're proving anything anymore," he said.
"I'm not," I replied.
He studied me carefully.
"You're different from the woman who walked into my office that first week."
"And you're different from the man who thought control was safety," I replied.
He smiled.
"Fair."
We stood quietly for a moment.
"Do you regret it?" he asked.
"Which part?"
"Choosing something that complicated."
I looked at him.
At the man who had learned to loosen his grip on power without losing it.
"No," I said softly. "Because we didn't make it smaller to make it easier."
He squeezed my hand gently.
"We made it stronger," he replied.
The city lights stretched endlessly below us.
And for the first time—
There was nothing left to fight.
Only something left to continue.