Carrick's office no longer felt like a place of power.
The glass desk that once gleamed with confidence now looked cold, almost mocking. The awards on the shelf—symbols of deals won and rivals crushed—sat untouched, gathering dust. His phone lay face-up beside his laptop, the screen dark, stubbornly silent.
Carrick checked it anyway.
Nothing.
No replies. No missed calls. No signs that Jane had even acknowledged his existence.
His business was unraveling faster than he had expected. Two major partners had pulled out "pending reputational review." An acquisition he had spent months negotiating collapsed overnight after a single article questioned his leadership ethics. Investors were suddenly cautious, their confidence brittle.
For the first time in years, Carrick felt exposed.
And the only thing he wanted—more than money, more than control—was Jane.
He leaned back in his chair, rubbing a hand over his face. He told himself he wasn't desperate. This wasn't weakness. It was clarity. Losing her once had been arrogance. Losing her again, when she was so close yet unreachable, felt unbearable.
He picked up his phone and opened their message thread.
The earlier messages stared back at him.
I know I hurt you.
I was selfish. I was stupid.
You didn't deserve what I did.
I think about you every day, Jane.
I never stopped.
He typed again, slower this time, more careful.
I see now what I lost. I won't pretend I can undo the past, but I can own it. I cheated. I betrayed your trust. I was wrong. I'm sorry—not the convenient kind. The real kind.
He hesitated, then added:
I want you back. Not because my life is falling apart—but because you were the best part of it.
He sent the message and waited.
Minutes passed.
Then an hour.
Still nothing.
Across the city, Jane sat at her kitchen counter, her phone buzzing relentlessly beside her mug of untouched tea. Carrick's name lit up the screen again and again, each vibration tightening something in her chest—not longing, but irritation mixed with a familiar ache she refused to indulge.
She finally picked it up and scrolled through his messages, her expression unreadable.
He sounded remorseful. Convincing, even.
Once, those words would have shattered her resolve. Once, she might have answered. Explained. Argued. Cried.
But that woman no longer existed.
Jane typed slowly, deliberately.
Please stop messaging me before I deal with you.
She sent it.
Then she muted the conversation.
Carrick stared at the reply, his chest hollowing out. It wasn't anger. It wasn't forgiveness.
It was dismissal.
And somehow, that hurt the most.
His phone rang moments later—his assistant, informing him that another client had postponed talks indefinitely. Carrick closed his eyes.
The fall had begun. And Jane was no longer there to catch him.
Jane's phone rang again.
She glanced at the screen, already prepared to ignore it—until she saw the name.
Frederick.
Her breath stalled.
She let it ring.Three times.Her thumb hovered over the decline button.
Images collided in her mind: Veronica's voice. Frederick's anger. The way he had spoken—sharp, dismissive, almost cruel. The doubt that had settled quietly but firmly in her chest.
The phone stopped ringing.
Jane exhaled.
Then it rang again.
She closed her eyes, steadying herself. Avoidance would not bring clarity. And clarity was the only thing she owed herself.
She answered.
"Hello."
Frederick's voice came through low, careful. "Jane. Thank you for picking up."
Silence stretched between them.
"I didn't expect you to," he added.
"I almost didn't," she said honestly.
"I know." He paused. "I'm outside your building."
Her grip tightened on the phone. "What?"
"I brought something," he said quietly. "I know it doesn't fix anything. But I needed to see you. Even if it's just for a minute."
Jane closed her eyes again. Part of her wanted to say no. To protect the calm she had fought so hard to maintain.
Another part knew she couldn't keep postponing the conversation that hovered over everything.
"Five minutes," she said. "That's all."
"Thank you," Frederick replied, relief evident. "I'll be quick."
She ended the call and stood, smoothing the front of her blouse—an unconscious habit. When she opened the door minutes later, Frederick stood in the hallway holding a modest bouquet of white lilies and greenery. No grand display. No excess.
Just quiet intention.
"I didn't know what flowers you liked," he said, offering them hesitantly.
Jane accepted them without comment, stepping aside to let him in.
Her apartment felt different with him inside. Smaller. More intimate. The air heavier.
They stood across from each other, neither quite sure where to begin.
"I won't stay long," Frederick said. "I just… I needed to apologize. Properly. Not in the office. Not under pressure."
Jane crossed her arms. "Then start with the truth."
He nodded. "Veronica and I were involved briefly. It ended months ago. I never promised her a future, but I should have handled everything with more responsibility. When she came into the office, I panicked. I reacted defensively. And I spoke out of anger."
Jane studied his face, searching for evasion. She found none—only tension and regret.
"And the pregnancy?" she asked.
"I don't know yet," he said quietly. "I've requested proof. I'll take responsibility if it's true. Fully. But I swear to you—I did not lie to you about where my priorities were."
Jane looked away, her jaw tightening.
"You humiliated her," she said softly. "Whether she was telling the truth or not—you humiliated her. And that… that unsettled me."
"I know," he said. "I hated myself the moment the words left my mouth."
She turned back to him. "Trust isn't damaged by mistakes alone. It's damaged by how people respond when those mistakes are exposed."
Frederick nodded slowly. "Then let me respond better now."
Silence settled again, quieter this time.
Jane's phone buzzed on the counter.
Carrick.
She didn't look at it.
Frederick noticed anyway. He didn't ask.
"I don't expect forgiveness," he said. "And I don't expect things to go back to how they were. I just want honesty between us. Whatever that leads to."
Jane inhaled deeply. "I need time."
"I'll give you all of it," he replied immediately. "No pressure. No defenses."
She studied him, measuring not just his words—but the restraint behind them.
"I won't be part of chaos," she said. "I've worked too hard to build a life rooted in clarity."
"I know," Frederick said. "That's why I respect you."
Jane nodded once.
"Thank you for the flowers," she added quietly.
He smiled faintly. "They're not a gesture. They're an apology."
When he left, the apartment felt strangely lighter—and heavier all at once.
Jane placed the flowers in water and stood by the window, watching the city below.
Carrick's messages remained unanswered. His world was shrinking, unraveling under the weight of his own choices.
Frederick's stood uncertain, cracked—but not broken.
And Jane?
She stood exactly where she had always intended to be.Not chasing love..Not fleeing doubt..But choosing herself—first.