Chapter 3

Daniel’s POV

The study door remained closed.

I sat behind my mahogany desk, staring at the amber liquid in my glass. The scotch burned going down, but not enough to erase the hollow ache settling in my chest. I turned the glass slowly in my fingers, watching the light fracture through it like something broken catching the last of the sun.

Logical, I reminded myself. This was logical.

I’d spent the last hour running numbers on my laptop, reviewing projections for the Crane Enterprises merger. The figures were impressive—market expansion, increased revenue, strategic positioning that would cement Sterling Holdings as the dominant force in commercial real estate. Everything I’d worked for. Everything that mattered. I dragged a hand through my hair and leaned back in my chair, the leather creaking beneath the shift of my weight.

So why did my penthouse feel like a mausoleum?

I took another drink and forced myself to focus on the screen. Lydia had sent the updated contract terms an hour ago. Her email was brief, professional, with a single line at the end: Looking forward to our partnership.

Partnership. The word felt heavier than it should. I read it twice, then closed the laptop halfway, as though I couldn’t stand to look at it.

A soft sound came from the hallway—barely audible over the rain pattering against the floor-to-ceiling windows. My hand tightened around the glass. Was she still here? Still packing?

Don’t go out there. I took another drink instead, pressing my tongue against the back of my teeth.

The numbers on the screen blurred. Forty-two percent projected growth. Strategic acquisition of the Westfield properties. European expansion within eighteen months. I’d built this empire from my father’s legacy, transformed it into something greater. Something untouchable. I pressed two fingers to my temple and stared until the figures sharpened again.

Amelia didn’t understand that world. Couldn’t understand the pressure, the constant battles, the necessity of control.

Lydia’s voice echoed in my head from our meeting last week, her fingers resting lightly on the edge of the conference table as she’d looked at me with something close to pity. “She’s making you soft, Daniel. When was the last time you closed a deal without second-guessing yourself?”

I’d wanted to argue. Wanted to defend Amelia. But the words had died in my throat because Lydia was right.

Three years ago, I would’ve crushed the Westfield acquisition without hesitation. Now I found myself considering employee welfare, community impact, long-term sustainability over immediate profit. Amelia’s influence, creeping into my decisions like water through cracks in stone.

“You’ve changed,” Lydia had continued, her red lips curving into something between concern and satisfaction. “Remember who you were before her. Remember what you’re capable of.”

I did remember. I remembered being twenty-five and ruthless and unencumbered by sentiment. I remembered Lydia leaving me for a better offer, teaching me the most valuable lesson of my life: love was a liability.

Then Amelia had smiled at me across a charity gala, wine-stained and apologetic, her dress slightly askew and her laugh too loud for the room, and I’d forgotten everything I’d learned.

Mistake. It had all been a mistake.

I heard footsteps now—soft, hesitant—moving down the hallway. Away from me. My jaw clenched. I stared at the screen and did not move.

The Crane deal required focus. Lydia had made that clear. “I need to know you’re all in, Daniel. No distractions. No divided attention. Can you give me that?”

I’d said yes. I made my choice. Signed the papers without letting my pen hand waver.

Another sound cut through the quiet—the low rumble of suitcase wheels crossing marble. She was leaving.

Good. I refreshed the spreadsheet, watching numbers recalculate in cold blue light. This is what needs to happen.

But my eyes drifted to the corner of my desk where a book lay forgotten. Jane Eyre. Amelia had been reading it three months ago, and had tried to tell me about it over dinner. I’d been on my phone, responding to emails, half-listening while she spoke to the side of my face.

“It’s about a woman who refuses to compromise herself for love,” she’d said quietly. “Even when it breaks her heart.”

I’d looked up briefly, barely. “Sounds impractical.”

She’d smiled—that sad, small smile I’d grown too accustomed to, the one that never reached her eyes anymore. “Maybe. Or maybe it’s brave.”

I picked up the book now, its pages worn soft at the edges from her hands. A passage was underlined in pencil, the stroke uneven, like she’d been lying down when she marked it: “I would always rather be happy than dignified.”

Something twisted in my chest, sharp and sudden. I set the book down quickly and reached for my scotch instead.

The front door opened. Then closed.

The silence that followed was absolute—the kind that has weight, that presses against your ribs.

I stood abruptly, my chair scraping hard against hardwood. I crossed to the window and stood with one hand braced against the cold glass, watching the rain streak down in long silver lines, blurring the city lights below into something unrecognizable. Somewhere down there, Amelia was getting into a car. Driving away. Starting over.

Without me.

This is what you wanted, I told myself. Control. Clarity. No complications.

My phone buzzed on the desk behind me. I turned slowly, staring at the screen.

A text from Lydia: “You did the right thing. See you tomorrow.”

I picked up the phone, my thumb hovering over the keyboard. The right thing. Yes. Of course it was. I typed back: “See you then.” The message sent. The screen went dark.

And in the black reflection of the rain-streaked glass, I saw a man I barely recognized—jaw tight, shoulders drawn, standing alone in an empty penthouse, surrounded by everything he’d built and nothing that mattered.

I drained the scotch in one long swallow and set the glass down too hard.

The rain continued to fall.

My phone buzzed again. Not a text this time—a calendar notification I’d forgotten to delete: Amelia’s birthday dinner reservation, 7 PM.

That’s tomorrow.

I stared at the screen, something cold moving through my chest. Tomorrow. Her twenty-eighth birthday. The one I’d promised to make special after missing the last two. I remembered the way she hadn’t complained either time, just nodded and said “next year, then” with that practiced steadiness that had somehow hurt more than anger would have.

The phone slipped from my fingers and clattered onto the desk.

And in the silence of the penthouse, I heard nothing but the sound of my own breathing, the rain outside, and the ghost of her voice: “I loved you.”

My phone lit up once more. Another message from Lydia: “Don’t forget. Breakfast meeting at 8. We have a lot to celebrate.”

I looked at the two messages on my screen. Then at the worn book on my desk. Then at the dark, empty hallway beyond my study door.

And for the first time in three years, I wondered if I’d just made the biggest mistake of my life.​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​​