KEIFER — PRESENT DAY
The room never fully came back into focus after that.
One second, Jay was standing there—untouchable, sharp, composed in a way that made my chest ache.
The next—
She kissed him.
Not a deflection. Not a performance.
A choice.
The sound died first. Applause from somewhere distant. Glasses clinking. Music pretending nothing had shattered.
I watched it happen like my body had been unplugged from my mind.
Her hand in his lapel. His surprise. Then his certainty.
The way he kissed her back like he belonged there.
Like he'd earned it.
Something inside me split clean down the middle.
Not heartbreak.
Something worse.
Possession without permission. Love without control. Loss without closure.
I'd told myself for six years that if I ever found her, I'd fix it. That she'd see I changed. That love would be enough.
Watching her choose someone else—
It didn't kill that belief.
It corrupted it.
I turned before she could look at me.
I didn't want her to see what crossed my face.
Because whatever lived there now wasn't desperation.
It was resolve.
She still loved me.
I saw it—in the silence she couldn't fill, in the way she couldn't say the words I begged for.
She hadn't denied me.
She'd avoided me.
And that meant something.
I left the hall with my jaw locked and my pulse steady.
This wasn't the end.
It was a declaration of war.
I would not lose her.
Not to time. Not to guilt. And definitely not to him.
If she'd outgrown the past—
Then I'd become her future.
No matter what it cost.
---
JAY — PRESENT DAY
The door to the hotel suite closed with a soft click.
Silence rushed in.
I leaned back against it for a second longer than necessary, exhaling like I'd been holding my breath since London.
Cole was already kicking off his shoes, jacket tossed over a chair like none of this had rattled him.
"I owe you," I said quietly.
He glanced over. "For?"
"For… that," I gestured vaguely. "I didn't ask. I just—"
He shrugged, easy grin in place. "Jay. You didn't stab me. You kissed me."
"That's not reassuring."
He stepped closer, lowering his voice just enough to make it real. "You didn't use me. You trusted me. Big difference."
I searched his face for resentment.
Found none.
Only warmth.
"And for the record," he added lightly, "I'm not emotionally scarred. Slightly flattered, actually."
I snorted despite myself.
Percy knocked once before entering, two glasses of water in hand. "So," he said dryly, handing me one. "Should I start threatening men or congratulate Cole?"
"Both," Cole replied immediately.
Percy smirked, then his expression softened when he looked at me. "You held your ground."
I nodded. "Didn't feel like it."
"That's usually when it counts," he said.
Later—when Cole excused himself and Percy left me alone—
The quiet crept in.
I sat on the edge of the bed, heels discarded, dress pooled around me like shed armor.
And then—
I broke.
Just a little.
Silent tears slid down my cheeks as I stared at nothing.
I hated it. Hated that after everything, my heart still remembered him. Hated that love didn't disappear just because someone hurt you enough to deserve losing you.
I pressed a hand to my chest.
"I didn't choose him," I whispered to the empty room. "I chose myself."
But love isn't logical.
And grief isn't loud.
Eventually, exhaustion won.
I curled onto the bed, mascara smudged, award resting untouched on the table across the room.
My last thought before sleep claimed me—
Not of revenge. Not of victory.
But of the girl I used to be.
And the woman she became to survive her.
Tomorrow—
I would wake up whole.
Even if part of my heart still needed time to catch up...
— ONE WEEK LATER
New York didn't ask how I was.
It never did.
The city took me back the same way it always had—loud, relentless, demanding momentum. Skyscrapers like witnesses. Meetings stacked like dominos. Decisions made in elevators. Coffee that tasted like survival.
Monday bled into Tuesday. Tuesday into Thursday. Friday arrived without ceremony.
Work became muscle memory.
MJ Industries thrived under pressure, and I let it consume me. Board reviews. Expansion strategies. Acquisition talks that stretched past midnight. Cole hovered in his usual orbit—present, grounding, never intrusive. Celeste filled the spaces with sharp humor and brutal honesty.
London became a file in my mind I refused to open.
Mostly.
Sometimes—late at night, when the penthouse was too quiet—I remembered the way Keifer's eyes had hollowed when I kissed Cole.
I didn't linger on it.
Lingering was dangerous.
By the seventh day, even the ache dulled.
Good, I told myself.
Healing didn't need drama.
It needed consistency.
Then came the meeting.
Dane had flagged it as urgent.
No context. No pre-brief. Just a tight line in my calendar marked
CONFIDENTIAL — EXECUTIVE ONLY.
That should've been my first warning.
The conference room was already occupied when I walked in.
Dane stood near the glass wall, tablet in hand, jaw tight. Cole leaned against the far end of the table, arms crossed—not relaxed. Alert.
And seated at the head—
A woman I didn't recognize.
Early forties. Controlled elegance. Slate-gray suit cut like authority. Hair pulled back with military precision. Her gaze assessed before I'd even sat down.
"Ms. Mariano," she said smoothly, standing. "Thank you for seeing me on short notice."
"Ms. Mariano," the woman repeated smoothly, reclaiming the room without raising her voice. "Allow me to introduce myself properly. Evelyn Cross. Legal representative for Watson Industries."
There it was.
Watson.
The name settled into the room like a controlled detonation.
I took my seat without breaking eye contact. "You're here without prior notice, without coordination through my legal team," I said coolly. "So I'm assuming whatever you're about to say is either urgent—or invasive."
Evelyn's lips curved faintly. "Both, I'm afraid."
She tapped her tablet. The glass wall behind her lit up.
A projection bloomed to life.
Blueprints. Economic models. Logistics corridors. Projected profit curves that climbed obscenely high.
"At present," she continued, "MJ Industries, Wilson Corporation, Watson Industries, and Fernandez Corporation are positioned to initiate a joint expansion into the Eastern market."
Dane stiffened.
Cole's jaw set.
I said nothing.
"This project," Evelyn said, gesturing to the numbers, "is estimated to generate revenues in excess of eleven billion within the first eighteen months. It is—by all current metrics—the most ambitious collaborative venture any of our companies have ever attempted."
Celeste let out a low whistle from where she leaned against the wall. "Well damn. That's obscene."
Evelyn ignored her.
"Due to the scale, sensitivity, and political implications," she went on, "the board has unanimously agreed that this project requires centralized leadership."
A pause.
"The designated operational headquarters will be established in the Philippines."
The room stopped breathing.
I didn't move.
Didn't blink.
Didn't react.
But something inside me went utterly still—like a glass surface freezing over in a single second.
The Philippines.
The last place on earth I would ever choose.
The place I never went back to. The place my name still echoed wrong. The place my past wasn't quiet.
Cole noticed first.
"Hold on," he said sharply. "That wasn't discussed."
"It's in the contract," Evelyn replied calmly. "Page forty-two. Jurisdiction and operational residency clause."
Dane swiped through his tablet rapidly, then froze.
"…It is," he said under his breath.
I exhaled slowly through my nose.
"Continue," I said.
Evelyn inclined her head. "Given the magnitude of the investment and the need for direct oversight, all primary stakeholders—founders and executive heads—will be required to be present on-site."
Celeste straightened. "For how long?"
"One year," Evelyn answered. "Minimum."
The word echoed.
A year.
A full year in a country that still felt like a wound I'd cauterized by leaving.
"The board believe," Evelyn continued, voice even, "that remote leadership introduces unacceptable risk at this scale. They want unity. Transparency. Accountability."
Unity.
I almost laughed.
"And if someone refuses?" I asked.
Evelyn met my gaze steadily. "Then that company forfeits its position in the collaboration."
Silence.
Heavy. Absolute.
Dane finally spoke. "This project is… unprecedented. Walking away would impact MJ Industries' growth trajectory for the next decade."
I knew.
That was the problem.
I looked at the projected numbers again.
Eleven billion. Global reach. Legacy-level influence.
Everything I had built MJ for.
And the price—
Going back.
Evelyn powered down the projection. "Our legal teams will finalize amendments over the next forty-eight hours," she said. "If there are no further questions—"
"There will be," Cole cut in. "Plenty."
She smiled thinly. "Of course. My office will be available."
She gathered her things, nodded once to the room, and left without another word.
The door closed.
And for the first time since London—
I felt it.
The crack.
Dane cleared his throat. "Ms.Jay… we'll review every clause. There may be contingencies—"
"Leave it," I said quietly.
He stopped.
I didn't look at him. "I know what it says."
Dane hesitated, then nodded. "I'll give you the room."
One by one, the legal teams filtered out.
The glass door slid shut again.
Now it was just—
Me. Cole. Celeste.
Celeste broke first. "Okay," she said carefully. "You just went… very quiet. And I don't like that version."
I finally turned toward the window, Manhattan stretched out below like a challenge.
"The Philippines," I said flatly. "Isn't just a location."
Cole stepped closer. "Talk to us."
I swallowed.
"I left that place bleeding," I said. "I rebuilt myself by never looking back."
Celeste's expression softened. "Jay…"
"They're not asking me to travel," I continued. "They're asking me to live inside the version of myself I buried."
Cole was quiet for a long moment.
Then: "And if you say no?"
I closed my eyes.
"Then MJ loses the biggest opportunity it will ever have," I said. "And everything I built to prove I survived becomes irrelevant."
Celeste crossed the room in two strides and took my hands. "Hey. Look at me."
I did.
"You don't owe your past anything," she said fiercely. "Not your presence. Not your pain."
"I know," I whispered.
"But," she added gently, "you also didn't build MJ to hide."
Cole stepped in beside us. "Whatever this is," he said steadily, "you don't face it alone. Not this time."
I laughed once—soft, humorless. "Funny. I ran six years ago to survive."
I looked between them.
"And now the only way forward… might be going back."
The city reflected in the glass.
Stronger. Sharper. Still watching.
And somewhere across an ocean—
So was the past.
Waiting.
Not quietly anymore...