6. How Have You Been?

Shirley POV：

The elevator doors glided open on the 36th floor, and I followed Connor out.

The moment I stepped into his office, the sheer, exaggerated scale of the place took my breath away.

It was a true corner office. Two massive floor-to-ceiling windows met at a ninety-degree angle, framing the sprawling urban skyline like a living mural.

The interior was a study in minimalism—monochromatic grays, cold surfaces, and a layout so sparse it felt clinical.

The bookshelves, the bar, the sofa, the conference table... everything was just like Connor:

Sharp, hard, and devoid of warmth.

Only the sunlight spilling across the floor offered any reprieve from the chill.

Connor unbuttoned his suit jacket and draped it over the back of his chair.

His gaze settled on me, the razor-sharp edge from the meeting room finally beginning to dull.

"Sit," he said.

I didn't move.

"If you have something to say, make it quick. I know how much your billable hours are worth. I’d hate to be a line item on your expense report.

A faint, almost apologetic smile touched his lips.

"The review back there... it was strictly business. I wasn't gunning for you."

I felt a bitter twitch at the corner of my mouth but said nothing.

"Your proposal has merit," he continued after a pause. "But it's flawed."

"So that’s why you brought me up here? To tell me personally that we're out?

“Message received. Thanks for the heads-up. Goodbye."

I didn't bother hiding my fury or my disappointment. I turned to leave.

"Shirley, wait—" He caught my arm, pulling me back with a sudden jerk.

My heels slipped, and I slammed into his chest.

He held me there, pinned against him, his voice slightly trembled.

"Don't go..."

The rage inside me flared. I shoved him back with everything I had.

"Mr. Rogers, you are crossing a line!"

"I'm sorry..." He seemed to realize he’d overstepped, stepping back with a flash of genuine awkwardness.

My chest heaved as I stared at him, the silence between us heavy and suffocating.

A few seconds passed before he finally spoke, his voice low and tentative.

"How have you been, Shirley? All these years... have you been okay?"

A surge of bitterness rose from deep within me, blurring my vision with hot, stinging tears.

"Better or worse... you’re looking at it, aren't you?" My throat ached, constricted by a phantom weight.

"I’ve wanted to say I’m sorry," Connor said, his voice straining. "But... I couldn't find you. You vanished."

The memories—those jagged, horrific shards of the past—ripped through my mind, tearing at my heart until I could barely stand.

My breath hitched in a series of ragged tremors, but I forced my voice to remain dead level.

"Keep your apology, Connor. I won't accept it. There’s nothing left between us. Nothing."

A flash of pure agony crossed his face.

He took a step toward me, and I recoiled, my heart hammering against my ribs.

"Shirley, three years ago... I had no choice. I know it was my fault. I’ve lived in my own hell every day since.

“I’ll make it up to you—everything. Just... come back to me."

My tears broke then, streaming down my face like a severed string of pearls.

My mind was a chaotic roar of screams and static, the ghosts of the past howling in my ears.

Outside, the sunlight was so brilliant it was blinding, washing the room in a white, sterile glare.

My legs began to give way.

Made it up to me?

With what?

How could he compensate for a child who slowly went cold in my arms?

How could he pay me back for the night I almost died shivering on the street?

Did he really think a few words of "making it up" could buy out my trauma?

I pressed my trembling lips together, fighting for a shred of dignity.

"It’s over. We go our separate ways. The moment I walk out here, you are a stranger to me again."

The tears wouldn't stop. I hated my own weakness.

These last three years had been too bitter, too haunted.

I’d never spoken of them; I’d tried to bury them, to pretend they didn't exist.

And now, he was standing there with the smug arrogance of a man who had won at life, peeling back my scars one by one.

Every cell in my body was screaming in pain.

I couldn't stop shaking. My body was betraying me, trembling with a violence I couldn't control.

Connor’s composure shattered. He closed the gap between us in two strides and hauled me into his arms, pinning me against his chest.

No matter how much I thrashed, he wouldn't let go.

"Stop it, Shirley. Seeing you like this... it’s killing me."

"Get your hands off me, you bastard!"

I screamed, kicking and clawing at him, but he was a wall of solid muscle.

"I can’t let you walk away again," he rasped, pressing his chin against the top of my head. His voice was raw, breaking.

His grip was suffocating. I could barely draw air into my lungs.

His body heat seeped through my clothes, wrapping around me—a familiar warmth that clashed violently with the agony in my memory.

The contact triggered a physical revulsion, a desperate need to escape.

I gathered every ounce of strength and shoved him back, my hand flying up in a blur.

CRACK.

The slap echoed through the sterile office.

Finally, he let go.

I stood there, gasping for air, staring him down with a gaze full of venom.

When I finally spoke, my voice was terrifyingly calm.

"I hate you. You’re a goddamn monster."

I smoothed back my disheveled hair and gave him one last, glacial look.

"Lay another finger on me, I’ll call the police and the press. Try explaining a harassment suit to your board of directors."

I turned to leave, my heels clicking sharply against the floor.

"Wait—" he called out.

The vulnerability was gone. It had been replaced by that same boardroom-cold steel.

"Let’s talk business. How about a trade?"

I stopped. I turned slowly to face him.

He had transformed back into the untouchable CEO, his blue-gray eyes devoid of anything but calculation.

"Every firm in that waiting room is starving for a Virex contract," he said, leaning back against his desk. "I assume you’re no different."

I watched him silently, waiting for the poison to drop.

"You’re smart enough to know your firm’s chances are effectively zero," he continued. "But... it's not impossible."

A ghost of a smirk played on his lips—the look of a man who held all the cards.

"Be my contract lover. In exchange, I give your studio the account. Tempting, isn't it?"