Page 36

Chapter

Twenty-Eight

T he elevator doors slid open with a soft chime, and Lucas froze.

There she was—Miranda—standing like a ghost from a dream turned nightmare, a cardboard box clutched in her arms, her expression shuttered and unreadable.

For a moment, he couldn’t breathe. He’d been looking for her everywhere, rehearsing apologies, confessions, something. Anything that might undo the damage. But now, words scattered like confetti in a hurricane.

So he defaulted to the worst possible instinct: sarcasm.

“I thought I was the one who was supposed to clean out my desk.”

The joke hit the air like a brick. Her eyes, those normally warm blue eyes, were glacial now—ringed with fatigue and a thin sheen of tears she clearly refused to shed.

He instantly regretted the words.

Before she could shift her weight or retreat, he reached out and took the box from her arms. She resisted, briefly, her fingers tightening on the edges—but then she let go, and it felt like more than cardboard she was handing over.

“What happened?” he asked, voice lower now, gentler.

“Not your concern.” Each word snapped with surgical precision, meant to cut. “You can move into my office now. Or plan the remodel. I won’t be needing it. Or you can fuck off. I truly don’t care anymore.”

She turned, arms wrapping around herself like armor, her spine rigid. The sight carved into him. He placed the box on a nearby chair, wanting desperately to reach for her again—but this time, when he lifted his hands, she stepped away. A clean sidestep, efficient. Controlled.

Just like her heartbreak.

His hands curled into fists, then dropped into his pockets, where they couldn’t do any more damage.

“I never meant for this to happen.”

One dark brow arched in disbelief. “Really?”

“Yes, really.” He blew out a breath, jaw tight. “Okay, yeah, I wanted to punish Seamus. But you? The Knights? You weren’t supposed to get caught in the fallout.”

“At least you’re not hiding behind Roger,” she said, voice brittle. “I didn’t know what he was planning. That’s not an excuse. But you—you knew .”

Her voice cracked on the last word. Just a hairline fracture, but it undid him.

“When did he tell you?” she whispered.

“April,” he admitted. “But I never agreed to anything.”

“And that’s supposed to make this okay?” Her laugh was hollow, sharp. “You knew for months. You still took the meetings. Gave advice. Walked the halls. Slept in my bed. Slept with me .”

His stomach clenched. “What did you want me to do, Miranda? If I told you back then, would you have believed me?”

“Maybe,” she burst out, eyes shimmering with hurt. “Or maybe not. I don’t know anymore.”

Her arms dropped to her sides, defeated.

“Lucas, I can’t—” She shook her head. “I can’t do this. Not now. Not with you. Please just… stop calling. Stop trying to explain.”

“Miranda—” He took a step forward, but she lifted a hand, palm out, the universal don’t.

“No,” she said, voice low but steady. “It’s over. I need time. Space. Distance. Whatever future you’re planning—for the Knights or yourself—I won’t be a part of it.”

She stepped forward, scooped the box off the chair with quiet resolve, and turned back toward the elevator.

Lucas didn’t move. Couldn’t.

She pressed the button.

The doors slid open again.

She stepped inside without looking back—and with her went the last chance he’d had.

The elevator doors closed between them, not just with a soft metallic whisper, but with the unmistakable finality of goodbye.

“ A re you fucking stupid or just an asshole?” Lucas stormed into Seamus Callahan’s office, fury radiating off him like heat from sun-scorched asphalt. Behind him, Ruth stumbled in, heels clicking frantically as she tried to catch up.

“Mr. Callahan—” she started, breathless.

“Ruth,” Seamus interrupted, calm as a bomb about to go off, “please close the door on your way out.”

He didn’t even bother looking at Lucas.

The door clicked shut behind them.

“What the hell were you thinking, firing Miranda?” Lucas’s voice was low now, lethal. “She’s the best damn thing that ever happened to this team.”

Seamus finally looked up, unimpressed. “I didn’t fire her. She resigned.”

Lucas’s eyes narrowed. “Semantics. She wouldn’t have resigned unless you backed her into a corner.”

“She made a choice,” Seamus said with a shrug. “Maybe it had something to do with you. I heard something interesting—about you cutting deals behind her back. Positioning yourself for the presidency with some new investors.”

Color flared across Lucas’s cheeks, but he kept his voice steady. “That deal had nothing to do with Miranda. That was about you. About your refusal to adapt. About watching this team bleed out while you held the knife and smiled.”

Seamus leaned back, smug and cold. “Either way, it’s no longer your concern. I already spoke to Roger. You’re done here. I want you off the premises by end of day. If not, I’ll have security escort you out. And trust me—they won’t be gentle.”

Lucas’s jaw clenched. “You really are the dumbest son of a bitch I’ve ever met. Miranda fought for this team like it was her heartbeat. She gave you every chance to turn things around—she shielded you from the league, from the staff, even from yourself. And what did you do? You spat in her face.”

Seamus slammed his palms on the desk and shot to his feet, face flushed, voice rising. “Don’t you dare judge me. You don’t know what it’s like to build something from nothing. You think you’re better than me? You used her. You don’t deserve her any more than I do.”

Lucas’s voice dropped to a gravelly whisper, more devastating than a shout. “I never said I did.”

That silenced the room.

Lucas took a slow step forward, his gaze steady, unwavering. “But I finally understand why she stayed. Why she kept trying to save you. Pity.” He shook his head. “And God, I do pity you. Because you’re about to lose everything—your team, your money, your legacy. But that won’t be the real loss.”

He leaned in just slightly, lowering his voice like a dagger slipped between ribs. “You’ve already lost her. And that? That’s something you’ll never get back.”

He straightened and turned toward the door.

“I’ll be gone by the end of the day,” he said, pausing with his hand on the knob. “But don’t fool yourself, Callahan. Your troubles are just getting started.”

Then he opened the door and walked out—without waiting for a response, without a backward glance—leaving only silence and the echo of everything Seamus Callahan would never be able to fix.