8
EMILIA
I closed the door.
Not hard. Not with anger. Just...quietly. Deliberately. My fingers lingered on the knob, skin pressed to cool metal, as if some part of me still needed proof that I’d done it. That I’d really, truly done it.
I had.
I listened to the sound of silence on the other side. No shuffling footsteps. No desperate plea through the door. No knock. He was gone. Or maybe he was still standing there, waiting for something to change. But I wouldn’t give him that.
Not anymore.
The lock clicked softly beneath my fingers. Final. Not cruel, not vengeful. Just…an answer. A decision.
I stood there for a long time. I don’t know how long. Time didn’t feel real anymore, hadn’t in days. It had stretched and folded in on itself, warping around each breath, each memory, each ache that refused to settle.
But this moment felt different. Sharper. Like it mattered.
My legs carried me slowly back down the hall and to my couch.
I didn’t sit right away. I looked around first.
At the mug on the coffee table.
At the blanket which had given me comfort for the past days.
I crossed the room and opened a window. Just a crack. I finally needed fresh air. My body and mind deserved it after the step I just took.
I sat down, but not in the same position I had the past week. I didn’t curl up, didn’t hide. I just sat, my back straight. My hands resting on my lap. My feet flat on the floor. Like I was showing up for something.
For myself.
A part of me still ached. Of course it did. You don’t spend months falling for someone, tangling your heart into their hands, only to unravel it cleanly. There are splinters left behind. Bruises that bloom long after the blow. But pain didn’t mean I had to go back to him. It didn’t mean I had to open the door.
It just meant I was human.
He said I was real. The only real thing he’d had in a long time.
But real doesn’t mean disposable.
He had come with his apology like it was a gift. Like I should be grateful he’d wrapped it in honesty and delivered it to my doorstep. But apologies aren’t currency. They don’t buy their way back into your life. Especially not after you’ve spent seven days scraping yourself off the floor.
I thought of all the things I hadn’t said to him.
How I had waited for him to see me. Really see me. Not just my body or my ambition or my loyalty, but me. The person underneath all that.
He never asked me about my favorite things. About my past, my hopes for the future.
He never looked beyond who I was, what I gave.
And I had given too much.
The grief in me would stay for a while, I knew that. Healing wasn’t some straight line. It was messy. Uneven. Full of sudden setbacks and unexpected peace.
But I’d made a choice.
Not to let him back in.
Not because he didn’t mean something to me, but because I finally meant something to myself.
That was the difference.
I stood up again, because sitting still felt too much like surrender. Like giving in to the gravity of what he’d done. I needed motion. Not chaos, not panic like before, but something quieter. Intentional.
So I moved. I washed the mug I’d been drinking tea from for days. I folded the blanket that had become my second skin. I opened more windows and let the air flow through my apartment. It wasn’t much, but it was something.
Later that night, I thought about work.
If going back was the right thing to do. Facing him in the office would be the hardest thing, and I wasn’t sure if I wanted to put myself—my heart—through that. Any sane woman would’ve resigned. But I loved my job. It was the one thing I achieved in life that I was proud of, and leaving it just sounded wrong.
On the other hand, I hated the idea of going back to work and seeing him every day. Acting like nothing ever happened between us while he asked me work-related questions. I hated the idea of sitting in a meeting with him next to me, watching me, talking to me.
Why would I want to live through that after everything he put me through?
Who knew that would be the toughest decision I’d ever make?
I sighed heavily, leaning back on my couch with my eyes closed, and my head thrown back.
I needed my head to step in now. To help me make a decision and lead me down the right path.
Finally, my mind was screaming at me to…
Option 1:
resign from being Dean’s assistant
(go to chapter 9)
Option 2:
go back to work
(go to chapter 10)