JAY — PRESENT DAY
The corridor outside the conference room was silent when I reached it.
Too silent.
Dane walked a step behind me, tablet in hand, posture straight. Two senior associates followed—competent, forgettable, exactly how I preferred them to be in moments like this.
I placed my hand on the door handle.
For a second—just one—my pulse shifted.
Not fear.
Recognition.
Then I pushed the door open.
The room stood.
Every single person inside rose to their feet in one smooth, practiced motion. Chairs scraped softly against the floor. Heads bowed—not deeply, but respectfully.
Power acknowledged power.
I stepped in without slowing.
My heels echoed against polished marble as I walked toward the head of the table. I didn't look at anyone immediately. I didn't need to. Their attention pressed against my skin anyway—curiosity, calculation, awe.
This was familiar.
This was mine.
I stopped at my seat and turned, finally lifting my gaze.
"Sorry, to keep everyone waiting. "
That's when I saw them.
Mark Keifer Watson.
Micheal Angelo Fernandez.
Time didn't soften the impact—it sharpened it.
Keifer sat rigid, shoulders squared, expression locked into something neutral enough to pass for composure. His eyes, though—
They betrayed him.
Angelo's reaction was subtler. A tightening of the jaw. A flicker of disbelief buried deep enough that most people wouldn't notice.
I noticed.
I always did.
Nothing touched my face.
No flinch.
No pause.
No memory.
If my heart reacted, it did so silently—trained, disciplined, obedient.
I took my seat.
"Good morning," I said evenly.
My voice didn't shake.
Didn't soften.
Didn't remember.
Dane stepped forward smoothly. "Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for your patience. Allow me to formally introduce—Ms.Jasper Jean Mariano or as some of you know Ms.Jay, Founder and CEO of MJ Industries."
A beat.
The name settled.
I inclined my head slightly in acknowledgment, eyes moving across the table—not lingering anywhere long enough to be interpreted as weakness.
Dane continued, professional and crisp. "Representing Watson Corporation—Mr. Mark Keifer Watson. And representing Fernandez Corporation—Mr. Micheal Angelo Fernandez."
I turned my gaze to them now.
Direct.
Unapologetic.
Cold.
"Mr. Watson. Mr. Fernandez," I said, voice calm, distant. "Welcome."
No familiarity.
No history.
No mercy.
If they expected recognition—if they waited for something personal—they didn't get it.
I opened the folder in front of me.
"Let's begin."
The meeting unfolded like clockwork.
Projections.
Strategies.
Calculated risks.
I spoke when necessary—brief, decisive, precise. Every word I used landed where it was meant to. The Wilson's followed seamlessly, as did my team.
I didn't look at Keifer again.
Not once.
But I felt his gaze like a weight.
Unrelenting.
Burning.
By the time the meeting wrapped up, contracts preliminarily agreed upon and next steps assigned, the room buzzed with controlled satisfaction.
I closed my folder.
"That will be all," I said. "My office will coordinate follow-ups."
People stood again.
As they filed out, I rose, already turning away.
Done.
Finished.
Or so I thought.
---
KEIFER — PRESENT DAY (POV)
The door opens.
I don't look up right away—there's no reason to. Meetings blur together after a while. Faces change. Titles don't.
But my chest tightens.
No warning. No logic. Just a sharp, unmistakable pull, like something buried too deep just clawed its way to the surface.
Footsteps.
Slow. Certain.
I look up.
And my body forgets how to function.
Jay.
Not a memory. Not a hallucination. Not the girl I lost.
She's real. Standing there. Walking into the room like she belongs at the center of it—because she does.
The room reacts before I can. People stand. Heads bow. Silence snaps into place like a command has been issued. I stay seated, frozen, my heartbeat roaring so loudly I'm sure everyone can hear it.
This isn't the Jay I left behind.
Her face is calm. Cold. Controlled. There's no softness in her eyes—no hesitation, no curiosity, no recognition.
That hurts more than anything else.
She doesn't search the room.
She doesn't look for me.
And for a terrifying second, I think she won't look at me at all.
Then she does.
Brief. Professional. Empty.
Like I'm nothing more than a chair she noted and dismissed.
Something inside my chest collapses.
Six years.
Six years of imagining this moment—of wondering what I'd say, how I'd explain, whether she'd hate me or forgive me or scream at me.
I wasn't prepared for indifference.
She sits at the head of the table like she was born there. Movements sharp, economical. Power sits on her shoulders easily, like it never weighed her down the way guilt weighs me.
She speaks.
Her voice is steady. Controlled. Unfamiliar.
I've heard that voice in the dark, shaking, breaking on my name.
Now it doesn't even acknowledge it.
The meeting starts. Numbers. Projections. Strategies.
I don't hear any of it.
I can't stop watching her.
The way people defer to her. The way the room bends around her. The way she doesn't flinch—doesn't crack—doesn't feel.
She's untouchable.
And I'm the only one in this room who knows what it took to make her that way.
My hands curl against the chair. I keep my face neutral, trained, composed. No one can see the wreckage happening inside me.
I want to stand.
I want to say her name.
I want to apologize for a thousand things all at once—for letting her go, for lying, for surviving when she had to disappear.
But she doesn't look at me again.
Not once.
And that's when it hits me.
She didn't come back.
She moved on.
She built a life so big, so ruthless, so complete that there's no room left for the boy who broke her heart trying to protect her.
I swallow hard, eyes burning, jaw clenched.
Jay.
The name echoes in my head like a prayer that goes unanswered.
And as I sit there—watching the woman she's become—I realize something that hurts worse than losing her ever did:
She's alive.
She's powerful.
She's everything I wanted for her.
And none of it belongs to me anymore...