The café was quiet.
Too quiet.
Clara arrived ten minutes early, choosing a corner table where she could see both the entrance and the street outside. Old habits resurfaced easily when emotions were involved.
She hadn't told anyone where she was going.
Not Dylan.
Not her mother.
Her phone sat face-down on the table, untouched.
Vanessa arrived exactly on time.
She looked different.
Not softer—but stripped down. No sharp red lipstick. No tailored power dress. Just black slacks, a cream blouse, and tired eyes that betrayed more than she probably wanted.
"You came," Vanessa said, sliding into the chair across from her.
"I'm here for the truth," Clara replied. "Not a performance."
Vanessa's lips curved faintly. "Fair."
They ordered in silence. When the waiter left, Vanessa folded her hands slowly.
"You think I leaked the contract," Vanessa said.
"You wanted to," Clara replied.
"Yes," Vanessa admitted. "But I didn't."
Clara stiffened. "Then who did?"
Vanessa leaned back. "Dylan."
The word hit like ice.
"That's not funny," Clara said.
"I'm not joking."
Clara's pulse raced. "He wouldn't."
Vanessa sighed. "He didn't mean to."
Clara stared at her. "Explain."
"Years ago," Vanessa began, "before you, before the board had teeth, Dylan made a mistake."
She paused.
"He trusted the wrong person."
Clara said nothing.
"That person was me," Vanessa continued. "And when things fell apart between us, he did what he always does—he locked everything down. Contracts. Legal firewalls. Leverage."
Her gaze sharpened. "Including the marriage agreement."
Clara's throat went dry.
"He stored it digitally with access limited to himself and one other person," Vanessa said. "Me."
Clara felt sick. "Why?"
"Because once," Vanessa said quietly, "he trusted me with everything."
The café seemed to fade around them.
"I never leaked it," Vanessa continued. "But when the board began pushing for blood, they hacked the server. They knew it existed."
Clara clenched her jaw. "And Dylan knew that."
"Yes."
"And he didn't tell me," Clara whispered.
"No," Vanessa agreed. "He chose to manage you instead."
The truth burned worse than betrayal.
"Why tell me now?" Clara asked.
Vanessa's expression softened, just slightly. "Because I lost him the moment he started protecting you instead of me."
Silence stretched.
"I loved him," Vanessa said. "But he never chose me the way he's choosing you. Even when he's doing it wrong."
Clara swallowed hard.
"You're not my enemy," Vanessa said. "But I won't pretend I'm your friend."
Clara nodded slowly. "That's honest."
Vanessa stood. "For what it's worth—you scared him. In the best way."
She walked away without another word.
Clara sat there long after Vanessa left.
So Dylan had known.
He had known the risk.
The exposure.
The danger.
And still—he had let her walk into it unarmed.
Not out of malice.
Out of fear.
Her phone buzzed.
A message from Dylan.
I heard you might be meeting Vanessa.
If this is about me, I won't defend myself.
But I will tell you the truth—if you let me.
She closed her eyes.
Then she typed:
Come to the brownstone on Elm.
One hour.
No lawyers.
No assistants.
Just you.
Dylan arrived early.
Clara noticed from the window.
He looked… different.
No suit.
No armor.
Just a man standing on a quiet street, hands in his pockets, waiting.
She opened the door.
He didn't step inside immediately.
"Thank you for seeing me," he said.
"You don't get gratitude yet," Clara replied, stepping aside.
Inside, the space was warm, intimate—nothing like the penthouse. A place built for honesty.
"I know what you're going to say," Dylan began.
"Then say it for me," Clara replied.
He swallowed. "I knew the contract could surface."
Her chest tightened.
"And you didn't warn me," she said.
"I thought I could contain it," he admitted. "I was wrong."
"You took my agency," Clara said quietly. "You decided what I could handle."
"I was scared," he said. "Not of losing the company—of losing you."
"That doesn't excuse it."
"No," he agreed. "But it explains it."
Tears burned behind her eyes, but she didn't let them fall.
"You don't get to protect me by lying," she said. "You protect me by trusting me."
"I see that now," Dylan said. "Too late."
She studied him.
"No," she said slowly. "Not too late. Just not easy."
Hope flickered in his eyes.
"I'm not coming back," Clara continued. "Not yet."
His shoulders sagged—but he nodded.
"But," she added, "I'm not done either."
He let out a breath he didn't realize he'd been holding.
"What do you want from me?" he asked.
"Truth," she said. "Every time. Even when it costs you."
He met her gaze. "You have it."
They stood there—no embrace, no promises.
But the space between them felt different now.
Not broken.
Bridged.
Outside, the city moved on.
Inside, something fragile and real began to rebuild.