Impulsive

Mark doesn’t rush toward me.

He doesn’t even look particularly surprised. There’s a brief pause, just enough to acknowledge that I’m standing there, before he straightens from the bookshelf and adjusts his sleeves, like he’s been caught off guard in the middle of something mildly inconvenient rather than something unforgivable.

“Well,” he says, exhaling through his nose, “this isn’t ideal.”

The cake box sits open by my feet, cream pressing against the edge where it must have shifted when it fell. I don’t pick it up.

“What is going on?” I ask again. My voice sounds steady. It doesn’t feel like it belongs to me.

Mark glances toward the door, the one my mother disappeared through, then back at me. Something passes over his face. It's quick and calculated, before it settles into something smoother.

“You shouldn’t have come here like this,” he says.

There’s no apology tucked inside it. No hesitation. Just a quiet correction, as if I’ve broken some unspoken rule.

“I shouldn’t have…” I repeat, the words trailing off as I watch him.

He’s already moving past it.

“You know how things are right now,” he continues, pacing once behind his desk before stopping, keeping that distance between us intact. “Meetings all day, investors flying in, pressure from every direction. I don’t have time for… unexpected interruptions.”

My gaze shifts to his mouth. It’s an odd thing to focus on, but once it settles there, it stays. The way his lips form each word, the measured pace, the slight pauses placed exactly where they should be.

I’ve seen this before. Not here. Not like this. But I recognize it.

“I brought you cake,” I say.

It sounds like something I’m supposed to say.

“Yes, I can see that,” he replies, almost immediately, his tone clipped. “And I appreciate the gesture, but you could have called first.”

His words slide neatly into place, one after the other, leaving no room for anything else.

“You were with my mother,” I say.

There’s a flicker then. An irritation at being forced to address it directly.

Mark exhales, slower this time, as if I’ve complicated something that didn’t need to be complicated.

“Let’s not turn this into something simplistic,” he says, leaning one hand against the desk. “You’re looking at it from a very narrow perspective.”

My eyes stay on his mouth which keeps moving, steadily and controlled.

“There are things you don’t understand,” he goes on. “Your mother and I have history. This isn’t some impulsive situation. It’s layered, it’s… complicated.”

The word lingers for a moment before dissolving into the rest.

“You could have told me,” I say.

He nods once, like he’s been waiting for that.

“And what would that have done?” he asks. “Hurt you? Distracted you? You’ve always been sensitive, Violetta. I was trying to avoid exactly this kind of reaction.”

His words land the same way they always have. Soft on the surface with something else underneath.

“I was protecting you,” he adds.

The room feels still, like everything has settled into place around his version of things.

I glance at his hands. They’re steady, resting lightly against the desk. There's neither tension nor urgency in them but composure.

When I look back up, he’s watching me more closely now, as if measuring how much of this I’m accepting. Or whether I'll cry.

“I can see you are already overthinking this,” he says, his tone easing into something almost reassuring. “We can talk about this properly. Sit down, take a moment, and—”

His words blur slightly.

Not because he’s stopped speaking, but because something about them stops landing.

There’s a rhythm to it. A familiarity that doesn’t quite fit anymore. The pauses feel placed, the concern carefully measured. Even the way he says my name, like it’s meant to soften everything that came before it, sounds rehearsed.

My gaze drifts past him, settling on the desk where the velvet ring box sits there, open and empty. Neither of us bothered to take it home, even three years later after the proposal.

For a moment, I just look at it. Then I look at him again.

His mouth is still moving.

“…no reason to escalate this. These things happen, and it doesn’t change anything important. You’re letting one moment distort—”

Something in the way he says ‘one moment’ doesn’t sit right.

Not after what I saw. Not after the way he stood there. Not after the way he didn’t move.

I reach to my left hand and slide the ring off my finger.

It comes free easily.

That’s what makes him stop.

“Violetta,” he says, sharper now, his voice catching the edge of something less controlled. “What are you doing?”

I don’t answer.

I walk past him, close enough to feel the faint warmth of his presence, and place the ring on the desk beside the empty box. It rests there without ceremony, catching the light for a brief second before going still.

“This isn’t necessary,” he says quickly, turning toward me. “You’re being impulsive.

I adjust the cake box near the door, lifting it just enough to set it upright again. The lid slips back into place, covering the uneven surface inside.

“For you,” I say.

Mark lets out a short, disbelieving breath.

“You’re seriously walking out over this?” he asks. “After everything we’ve built?”

I don’t respond.

“You’re not even going to listen?” he presses, his voice tightening. “At least be reasonable about it. We can fix this.”

I reach for the door.

“Violetta.”

My name comes out firmer this time, edged with something closer to command than concern.

I pause, my hand resting against the handle.

Behind me, he continues, the words coming faster now, less measured.

“You won’t find something better than this,” he says. “You know that, don’t you?”

I open the door.

The hallway is quiet, just as I left it.

“Don’t be dramatic,” he adds, the last thing that follows me out.

The door closes softly behind me, cutting him off before he can say anything else.