The offer arrived at 07:12 a.m.
Gerard read it once.
Then again.
Then a third time—slower.
It was perfect.
That was the problem.
A European expansion.
Full acquisition.
Immediate liquidity.
A decade-long vision handed to him neatly wrapped in numbers that most men would kneel for.
Relocation required.
Minimum eighteen months.
Paris.
Zurich.
Milan.
Cities built for men who could see everything clearly.
Gerard closed the document.
Across the table, the board waited.
They were polite about it.
Careful.
Too careful.
"This is an opportunity," one of them said gently. "Not just for the company. For you."
Gerard leaned back in his chair, hands clasped loosely.
"I know."
"Your presence is required," another added. "The investors made that very clear."
Silence followed.
The kind that assumed compliance.
Gerard glanced at the reflection in the glass wall.
For a split second, he saw not a CEO—but a husband standing beside a hospital bed, introducing himself every morning like a ritual of survival.
"I can't," he said.
The words landed flat.
The room blinked.
"I'm sorry?" the chairman asked.
"I can't relocate," Gerard repeated. Calm. Certain.
A pause.
Then murmurs.
"This deal doesn't wait," someone warned.
"I'm aware."
"You won't get this chance again."
Gerard nodded.
"That's fine."
The chairman's expression tightened. "You're choosing to stall global expansion."
"I'm choosing to stay."
"With respect," another voice cut in, "this company cannot orbit a personal matter."
Gerard leaned forward.
"My wife isn't a personal matter," he said evenly. "She's my priority."
The room stiffened.
They didn't say it—but they thought it.
*She's a liability.*
"Your wife's condition—" someone began.
Gerard's gaze sharpened.
"—is not open for discussion."
Silence again.
He stood.
"The deal is declined," he said. "We'll revisit expansion locally."
The chairman exhaled slowly. "You're making an emotional decision."
Gerard met his eyes.
"Yes."
And walked out.
—
Hilary felt it before she heard it.
The house carried tension differently when Gerard returned early.
The air thickened.
Footsteps heavier.
Breathing controlled too tightly.
She stood in the kitchen, fingers resting on the counter, red ribbon tied securely around her wrist.
"Gerard?" she called.
He didn't answer immediately.
Then—
"I'm here."
Relief.
But layered with something else.
Weight.
He approached slowly, as if measuring every step.
She turned toward his voice.
"You're home early," she said.
"Yes."
"You didn't say it like it was good news."
He huffed softly.
"Have I ever?"
She smiled faintly.
He stopped in front of her.
She smelled him instantly.
Cedar.
Amber.
But there was tension beneath—sharp, metallic.
Anger restrained.
Decision made.
"You turned something down," she said quietly.
He stilled.
"How did you—"
"Your breathing changed," she explained. "And you didn't take your jacket off."
He exhaled.
"Yes," he admitted.
"What was it?"
She asked gently—but her heart raced.
"A deal," he said. "Overseas."
Her fingers curled against the counter.
Oh.
That.
She'd heard whispers.
The rumors.
The anticipation.
Her chest tightened.
"And?" she asked.
"I declined."
The word echoed.
She didn't speak for a moment.
The house hummed softly around them.
"You shouldn't have done that," she said finally.
He frowned slightly.
"I know this will upset you, but—"
"You shouldn't have done that," she repeated, firmer now.
He stepped closer.
"I chose—"
"Me," she cut in.
Her voice shook.
"Yes," he said.
She laughed, breathless.
"That's not romantic," she said. "That's reckless."
"It's necessary."
"No," she replied. "It's you setting yourself on fire so I don't have to feel cold."
His jaw tightened.
"I'm not abandoning you."
"And I didn't ask you to."
She turned away, gripping the edge of the counter.
"This is your life," she said. "Your work. Your vision."
"I can rebuild."
"And what if you resent me when you do?"
He went still.
"That won't happen."
"You don't know that," she whispered. "You don't even know what I'll be like in a year."
He moved closer.
"I know who you are now."
She shook her head.
"I'm changing," she said. "I feel it."
"That doesn't make you less."
"No," she agreed. "But it makes me… different."
He reached for her arm.
She flinched—not away, but in surprise.
He froze instantly.
"I'm sorry," she said quickly. "I didn't mean—"
"I know," he replied. "I know."
She turned toward him then.
"I don't want to be the reason your world shrinks," she said. "I don't want to be the line you stop at."
He cupped her face gently.
"You're not," he said. "You're the reason it exists."
Tears burned.
"You'll regret this," she whispered.
"Maybe," he said honestly. "But I would regret leaving you more."
She pressed her forehead to his chest.
"You didn't even hesitate," she murmured.
"No."
"That scares me."
"It scares me too," he admitted.
She breathed him in.
"If this costs you—"
"I'll pay it."
Her hands trembled.
"You can't keep choosing me over everything," she said.
"I'm not," he replied. "I'm choosing us."
She swallowed hard.
"And when the board turns against you?"
"They will."
"When the rumors start?"
"They already have."
"When they say you're weak?"
He smiled faintly.
"Then they'll finally be right about something."
She laughed weakly.
"I don't deserve this."
He kissed her hair.
"You don't get to decide that."
Later that night, Hilary lay awake, listening to the city.
She thought of Paris.
Of opportunities slipping quietly into the hands of men who didn't need to choose.
Her chest ached.
In the darkness, she whispered, "Gerard?"
"Yes."
"Promise me something."
"Anything."
"If one day this costs you too much," she said, "don't stay silent."
He turned toward her.
"I won't."
She reached for his wrist.
The ribbon brushed her fingers.
Red.
Certain.
Across the city, in a quiet apartment, Bianca scrolled through an internal memo.
*Overseas expansion declined.*
Her lips curved.
Good, she thought.
Isolation always came before collapse.
And she closed the file with a smile.