(Shane)
Shane learned early that silence could be weaponized.
In boardrooms, it meant leverage.
In families, it meant survival.
But standing across the street from Torres Brew, watching the lights dim behind the glass, he realized silence could also mean restraint—and restraint, when it came to Kiara, was the hardest discipline he had ever practiced.
He didn't go inside.
Not tonight.
He stayed where he was, hands in his coat pockets, breath fogging the cold air, forcing himself to be visible but distant. Close enough to protect. Far enough not to contaminate.
That was the balance now.
His phone vibrated.
Mother.
He didn't answer.
It rang again.
Then again.
Finally, he stepped away from the café, walking until the glow no longer tugged at his peripheral vision.
He answered on the fourth ring.
"You're enjoying this," Mrs. Benson said without greeting. "The martyrdom."
"I'm enduring it," Shane replied calmly.
"There's a difference."
"Not to you."
A pause. Controlled. Measured.
"You're being watched," she continued. "Every move. Every appearance. You are undoing years of careful positioning."
"Then the positioning was fragile," he said.
"That girl—"
"Kiara," he corrected.
"That girl," his mother repeated coolly, "is costing you political capital."
Shane stopped walking.
"She's not costing me anything," he said quietly. "She's showing me what things actually cost."
Silence stretched on the line.
Then: "You think this ends well?"
"No," Shane said honestly. "I think it ends honestly."
He ended the call before she could respond.
At home, the penthouse felt cavernous.
Too clean. Too quiet.
He poured a drink he didn't touch and stood at the window, watching the city pulse below him.
He thought of Kiara's hands—ink-stained, steady under pressure. The way she listened more than she spoke. The way she stood firm without spectacle.
He'd kissed her once.
Just once.
And it had undone him.
Because he knew now—absolutely—that if he crossed that line again without intention, without readiness to lose something real, he would become the very thing she was fighting against.
Power without care.
He wouldn't be that.
Another message buzzed in.
Unknown Number:
She's braver than you. Prove us wrong.
His jaw tightened.
They were testing him.
Not financially.
Morally.
He didn't respond.
Instead, he opened his laptop and began drafting a memo—one he'd never written before.
Not defensive.
Transparent.
No denials.
Just distance.
Effective immediately, I will recuse myself from any direct or indirect involvement with independent small business initiatives under review.
It would cost him influence.
It would signal separation.
It would protect Kiara.
He hesitated only once.
Then hit save.
Later that night, he walked back past the café again.
Lights off now.
Quiet.
He stood there longer than necessary, imagining her inside—counting, planning, refusing to give in to exhaustion.
She was stronger than she knew.
And stronger than he deserved.
His phone buzzed softly.
Kiara:
Did you make it home?
He smiled faintly.
Shane:
Yes.
A pause.
Then:
Kiara:
I didn't see you tonight.
He stared at the screen.
His fingers hovered.
Then:
Shane:
I was nearby.
Another pause.
Longer this time.
Kiara:
Thank you—for knowing when not to come in.
His chest tightened.
Shane:
I'm learning.
He slipped the phone back into his pocket and turned away before the ache could pull him backward.
Because loving Kiara—really loving her—wasn't about proximity.
It was about discipline.
About choosing her future over his comfort.
About standing still when every instinct told him to reach.
And as Shane Benson walked home alone, he understood something he never had before:
Power was easy.
Presence was easy.
But restraint—
Restraint was devotion.
....🥹