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The voice hits like ice water. I look up to find Clara Brighton standing at our table, stunning in a slate-gray designer dress that probably costs more than the bar’s monthly revenue. Her blonde hair is pulled back in a severe knot that matches her calculating expression—everything about her radiates polished corporate power.

My ex-girlfriend from New York and current VP of Brighton Analytics. Two years of carefully buried history resurface in an instant.

“Clara. I didn’t expect to see you here.”

“Clearly.” Her eyes flick to where Emma and I are touching, then back to me with practiced precision. “I stopped by your office earlier, but your assistant said you were out celebrating.”

I shift away from Emma slightly, hating myself for the automatic response but unable to stop the instinctive retreat. Two years of Clara’s manipulations have conditioned me well. “Team recognition event. The market analysis division has exceeded expectations on our implementation timeline.”

“How efficient.” Clara’s smile is as sharp as glass. “Though I suppose that’s to be expected, given your personal investment in the department’s success.”

The implication hangs heavy in the air, poisoning our easy atmosphere. Emma tenses beside me, and I see the rest of the team watching this collision of past and present like a slow-motion car crash.

“Brighton Analytics has always appreciated Emma’s innovative approach,” Clara continues, each word as precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. “Our board was just discussing opportunities that might better suit her unique qualities.”

My hands clench under the table, nails digging into my palms. The idea of Emma at Brighton, of losing her to our biggest competitor—

“I’m quite happy at Walker Enterprises,” Emma says, her voice steadier than I expected. “Our sustainable technology integration is—”

“Revolutionary. So I’ve heard.” Clara’s laugh is pure Manhattan society parties and corporate power plays. “Though I wonder if the board shares your enthusiasm. Especially given certain personal complications.”

“Clara.” I put every ounce of CEO authority into my voice, the same tone I used when shutting down hostile takeover attempts at Matthews & Sterling. “This isn’t the place.”

“No?” She arches a perfect eyebrow. “I thought you enjoyed mixing business with pleasure. You certainly did in New York.”

The deliberate hit lands perfectly. I see the exact moment Emma processes the implication, the slight widening of her eyes, the almost imperceptible stiffening of her shoulders. In one calculated sentence, Clara has implied that Emma and I have crossed professional lines and that I have a history of doing so.

Emma stands abruptly, her drink sloshing dangerously close to the rim. “I need some air.”

“Emma—” I start to rise, reaching for her instinctively.

“Don’t.” The word cuts like a blade, and her eyes suddenly shutter. “Wouldn’t want to complicate things further.”

I watch Emma push through the door, Clara’s satisfied smile burning into my periphery. The team awkwardly returns to their conversations, but the damage is done. Everything I’ve been trying to protect—Emma’s reputation, professional standing, and brilliant ideas being taken seriously—is crumbling because of my past choices. Or maybe it was because I tried to maintain too much distance, creating a fracture that Clara could easily exploit.

“Well,” Clara says softly, “some things never change, do they, Lucas? Still letting personal feelings cloud your judgment.”

Her words hit their mark, but instead of the shame she intended, I feel something else rising—determination. I’ve spent two years running from confrontations, and where has it gotten me?

Personal feelings aren’t clouding my judgment—they’re finally clearing it.

I’ve spent weeks trying to be the CEO I thought the board wanted, maintaining “appropriate professional boundaries” at the cost of everything that made Walker Enterprises special – the creativity, personal connections, and innovative approaches born from authentic collaborations.

“Excuse me,” I tell Clara, not bothering to soften the edge in my voice. “We’ll have to catch up another time.”

I leave her standing there, surprised by my abrupt departure. It’s probably bad business etiquette and definitely poor strategy, given Brighton’s influence, but for once, I don’t care about the optics.

The bar’s warmth gives way to the cool night as I push through the door. Music and laughter fade behind me, replaced by distant traffic and the gentle rustle of wind through nearby trees. My heart pounds, not from the confrontation with Clara, but from the fear that I’ve waited too long—that Emma might already be gone.

I scan the street for a moment, relief washing over me when I spot her.

Emma stands on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around herself despite the mild evening. Her back is to the bar, face tilted toward the sliver of the moon visible between buildings. She looks vulnerable in a way I’ve never seen—the brilliant analyst who confidently challenges boardrooms suddenly small under the vast night sky.

I approach slowly, giving her time to notice me, to walk away if that’s what she wants. But she remains, her posture softening just slightly as I draw near.

“Emma, wait. About earlier, in the conference room…” My voice is steadier than I feel.

“It’s fine.” She turns, and the careful distance in her voice breaks something in my core. “Very unprofessional of us to almost... while discussing why we must maintain appropriate boundaries.”