Chapter 2

Charlotte Head POV:

The morning light, thin and pale, seeped through the blinds. My phone lay on the bedside table, a silent black rectangle. I picked it up, not out of habit, but out of a vague need to check the time. My thumb brushed over the icon for a social media app. A small red notification bubble pulsed. Eve. Of course.

I tapped it open. Eve's latest post: a carousel of photos. Eve, laughing, wrapped in Damion's arm at the very gallery opening I had attended. One picture showed her leaning into him, her head on his shoulder, his hand casually resting on her waist. A candid shot, apparently. Or perfectly staged. Doesn' t matter. In another, they were clinking champagne glasses, their smiles mirroring each other. The caption read: "Such a magical night with my oldest and dearest friend! So glad you dragged me out, D!"

I scrolled past it, a sigh escaping my lips. Not a sigh of pain or jealousy, but one of profound weariness. It was all so predictable, so utterly draining. The same old story, just a different filter. I tossed the phone onto the bed and pushed myself up. Time to work. Time to focus on things that actually mattered.

My office at Sterling & Finch was a sanctuary. The hum of computers, the crisp scent of paper, the focused energy of my colleagues-it was all clean, purposeful, a stark contrast to the emotional mess waiting for me at home. I plunged into market analysis reports, client presentations, everything that demanded intellect and strategy, leaving no room for emotional clutter.

Later that afternoon, a ping on my internal messaging system. My boss, Mr. Harrison. "Charlotte, can you step into my office please?"

My stomach did a little flip, a reflex from years of performance anxiety. But this time, it was different. I felt a quiet confidence. I'd been delivering.

"Come in, Charlotte." Mr. Harrison gestured to the chair opposite his large mahogany desk. He looked pleased, a rare expression. "I've just gotten off the phone with the London office. They're still very keen on you."

A familiar warmth spread through me, quickly followed by a dull ache. London. Three years ago, I'd turned down that promotion, that international transfer, for Damion. He'd been insistent. "New York is our home, Charlotte. And what about me? You'd just leave?" He' d made me feel selfish, unloving, for even considering it. So I' d stayed. For him.

"Oh?" I managed, my voice carefully neutral. "That's... surprising. I thought that ship had sailed."

Mr. Harrison leaned back, a slight smile playing on his lips. "Well, your track record speaks for itself. Your restructuring of the social media campaigns increased engagement by 30% in Q2 alone. London noticed. They're pushing harder this time. The offer is still on the table, with an even better package, and a fast-track to Senior Marketing Director within a year if you perform." He paused, his gaze softening. "I know you turned it down before, Charlotte. For personal reasons, if I recall correctly. Is anything holding you back now?"

I looked at him, really looked at him. He was offering me everything I'd quietly yearned for. A fresh start. A challenge. A chance to be me, unburdened. The dull ache in my chest seemed to dissolve, replaced by a quiet certainty.

"No," I said, the word coming out stronger than I expected. "Nothing is holding me back now. I've actually... ended things with Damion."

Mr. Harrison's eyebrows shot up, but he quickly composed himself. "I see. Well, Charlotte, that's certainly a big step. But professionally, it means you're free to pursue this incredible opportunity. Are you taking it?"

"Yes," I said, a genuine smile finally breaking through. "Yes, I am."

The next few days were a blur of paperwork, briefings, and excited phone calls with the London team. My colleagues, hearing the news, were thrilled for me.

"Drinks after work tonight, Charlotte?" Sarah, one of my closest work friends, asked, leaning into my cubicle. "A proper send-off. We can hit that new rooftop bar you like."

"Sounds perfect, Sarah," I replied, feeling a lightness I hadn't experienced in years.

As we gathered our things, ready to leave, a commotion broke out at the reception area. I looked up, and my heart sank with a dull thud. Damion. He stood there, holding a ridiculously large bouquet of red roses, looking like he owned the place. He spotted me, his eyes lighting up.

"Charlotte!" he called out, his voice carrying too loudly across the office floor. He pushed past the bewildered receptionist, roses first.

Sarah exchanged a look with me, a mischievous glint in her eyes. "Oh, look what the cat dragged in," she muttered under her breath.

He reached me, his gaze sweeping over my colleagues, daring them to comment. "I brought you these." He thrust the roses at me.

"Oh, Damion," Sarah said, feigning sweetness. "Red roses? How... traditional. Don't you know Charlotte is more of a peony person now?" She nudged me, a silent laugh in her eyes.

I took the bouquet. The heavy scent of the roses was cloying. "Thanks," I said, my voice flat.

Damion ignored Sarah. "We need to talk, Charlotte. It's urgent." He grabbed my arm, his grip surprisingly firm. "I'm taking you to lunch."

"Whoa there, cowboy," Liam interjected, stepping forward. "Charlotte already has plans. A farewell dinner with us, actually."

Damion glared at him. "This is important. It concerns us. Charlotte, come on." He pulled gently but insistently.

I barely registered the roses in my hand. He was just taking over, as usual. "It's fine, Liam," I said, my voice weary. "I'll just... go with Damion. You guys go ahead. I'll catch up later, maybe."

Liam looked at me, a question in his eyes. I gave him a small, almost imperceptible shake of my head. It was easier to go, to get it over with.

Damion smiled at Liam, a triumphant, condescending smirk. "Don't worry, I'll make sure she's back by dinner. I'll even treat you all to a round of drinks tonight, for the inconvenience." He was all charm now, the quintessential banker smoothing over a minor disturbance.

I left the roses on Sarah's desk. "Enjoy," I mumbled.

Damion didn't notice. He was already pulling me towards the elevator. As the doors slid shut, I could feel his gaze on me.

"You don't like the roses, do you?" he asked, a hint of accusation in his voice.

I glanced at him. My mind was still replaying a difficult client meeting. "Hm? Oh. No, they're fine." I wasn't really paying attention.

"You said you liked red roses once," he persisted, a slight frown on his face.

"I'm actually allergic to them, Damion," I said, a dull ache in my chest. "Remember? I told you that, like, a year ago, when Eve sent me a bouquet of them after that charity gala."

His face paled slightly. "Oh. Right. I... I must have forgotten. I'm sorry, Char. I'll remember next time, I promise."

Next time. There wouldn't be a next time. The words hung in the air, unheard by him. He never remembered. He never really saw me. He saw a version of me he'd constructed, a convenient accessory to his perfect life. My allergy to red roses was just a footnote in his self-centered narrative. He' d forgotten in precisely the same way he' d forgotten countless other details about me, about us. My favorite foods, my career ambitions, my deepest fears. All erased, or overshadowed by Eve's more pressing, more dramatic needs. The realization hit me, not with a crash, but with the quiet finality of a closing door. There was truly nothing left to salvage.

"It's fine, Damion," I said, my voice flat. The words were a dismissal, not an absolution.

He pulled over, the car braking smoothly. "We're here."

I looked out the window. A small, private airfield. A sleek private jet gleaming on the tarmac. No restaurant. No "talk." Just... escape?

"What is this?" I asked, confusion momentarily breaking through my detachment.

He turned to me, a boyish grin spreading across his face, a rare sight. It was a look I hadn't seen in years, a flash of the charming man I once thought he was.

"A surprise," he said, his eyes sparkling. "Just us. No phones, no work, no Eve. Just a few days in Paris. To reconnect. To remember why we fell in love." He reached for my hand, his grip warm and familiar, yet foreign.

A pang, sharp and unexpected, twisted in my gut. Paris. The city of romance. He was trying. Too little, too late. But he was trying. I almost mentioned the pictures Eve had posted from a previous trip weeks ago, pictures of her posing in front of the Eiffel Tower, with Damion' s arm visible in the frame of one of them. But what was the point?

Then, another thought, like a cold splash of water. This was the first time in our three years together that he'd ever planned a romantic trip, just for us. The realization was stark. He' d taken Eve to Paris, to London, to countless other exotic locales. But never me. Not until now, when I was already halfway out the door. It wasn't about us. It was about him losing something. Something he took for granted.

A part of me, the old, hopeful Charlotte, wanted to believe him. Wanted to cling to this desperate, last-ditch effort. But the new Charlotte, the indifferent Charlotte, simply saw an opportunity. A final, elegant exit. This wasn't a fresh start. This was a graceful goodbye. I would let him play his game, let him attempt to "fix" what was irrevocably broken. And then, I would walk away, leaving him with his illusions.

"My luggage?" I asked, my voice calm.

"Already on board," he said, a proud glint in his eyes. "Had my assistant handle it. All taken care of."

I gave him a small, noncommittal nod. My new life in London was waiting. And thanks to my promotion, I had plenty of vacation days to burn before I started. A few days in Paris, then. Why not? A final, picturesque setting for the end of a long, tired story.