The call came three days later.
I was reviewing reports when my phone buzzed—unknown number.
I already knew who it was.
"Hello?" I answered.
"We'd like to move forward," the consultant said. "Formally."
My heartbeat stayed steady.
Good sign.
"We're offering you the role," he continued. "Lead strategist. Independent authority. We want your answer within forty-eight hours."
Forty-eight hours.
I thanked him, asked for the written details, and ended the call.
Then I sat back in my chair and stared at the ceiling.
This was real now.
No longer a possibility.
A decision.
Across the glass, Arvan was in a meeting. Focused. Controlled. In his element.
For the first time since I met him, I felt something unfamiliar.
Distance—not emotional.
Structural.
I didn't interrupt his meeting.
I didn't message him.
I finished my work. Quietly. Efficiently.
When evening came, he found me packing up.
"You're leaving on time," he noted.
"I have plans," I replied.
He didn't ask what kind.
That was new too.
We walked toward the elevators together, silence stretching—not tense, just thoughtful.
"You're carrying something," he said finally.
I looked at him. "You're not wrong."
We stepped inside the elevator. Doors closed.
I told him then.
Not dramatically.
Not cautiously.
Just honestly.
"They made an offer," I said. "The consultants."
He didn't speak.
The elevator hummed softly as it descended.
"Full role?" he asked.
"Yes."
"Leadership?"
"Yes."
A pause.
"And you haven't decided."
"No."
The elevator stopped.
Doors opened.
We didn't move.
"Do you want my opinion?" he asked.
I studied his face carefully.
"No," I said. "I want to know if you'll respect my decision."
He met my gaze.
"I will," he replied instantly.
No hesitation.
No qualifiers.
That was harder than resistance would've been.
Outside, the city lights flickered on.
"This is the part," he said quietly, "where I usually take control. Solve the problem. Make it manageable."
"And you can't," I said gently.
He nodded.
"That scares me," he admitted.
I reached out without thinking, resting my hand over his.
"Me too," I said. "But not in a bad way."
He turned his hand, fingers curling around mine.
"You're not choosing between me and a job," he said.
"You're choosing between who you were… and who you're becoming."
My throat tightened.
"Yes."
He exhaled slowly.
"Then I won't be the man who makes that choice harder," he said.
I squeezed his hand once before letting go.
That night, alone in my apartment, I read the offer again.
The salary.
The authority.
The freedom.
And the cost.
I didn't make the decision yet.
But for the first time, I wasn't afraid of either answer.
Because control wasn't the foundation of what we had.
Trust was.
And whatever I chose next…
Would redefine everything.