THREE
Levi
“Two? Why two?” I ask, my eyes narrowing at my phone’s screen distractedly. I still haven’t gotten confirmation from Cece about her attendance at the fundraiser this weekend.
“Uh—yes. Apparently they had two representatives fly to Vancouver for something else and… they requested an audience with you,” Taewon says, his figure moving in my periphery, his voice slightly strained.
I’m guessing he knows what an impromptu meeting does to my schedule. But if people from Miller-Moore want to see me—they will.
I can’t afford to ignore and delay this merger. The gnawing feeling where I suspect something is wrong will eventually go away. Either by materializing or by being a non-issue.
The fact that I’m always looking over my shoulder with this presidency at Astor Holdings, can’t be healthy.
“Fine,” I sigh. “We’ll get this done quickly. I want the meeting done before seven this evening.”
“Uh… Levi?”
That grabs my attention away from my phone. Taewon rarely calls me by my first name while at work. It’s usually Mr. Astor when we’re in the building. Even though I hate it because my father maintains that title even decades later. It’s almost as if he is the president.
“What?”
“The two Miller-Moore reps are Grace Miller and her senior consultant… Iris Desmond.”
My eyes narrow at Taewon, his penetrating gaze studying my face with curiosity. My brain stutters, so does my voice. “I-Iris? Iris Desmond?” I repeat the name like it’s in another language.
Taewon doesn’t answer right away. Still watching, but then he nods. “Yes. Iris Desmond.”
I stand up slowly from behind my desk, a strange pressure behind my ribs. “Are you sure? Like actually Iris… my Iris?”
There’s a pause, and then a loud exhale makes me snap my head back up to him.
“Your Iris?” He deadpans. “Really, Levi?”
I wince. “You know I didn’t mean it like that.”
“Right,” he drawls, almost glaring.
I ignore that. My brain is still buffering, because there’s no fucking way. I pace across the room slowly, one hand on my jaw.
Iris Desmond.
In my country.
In my building.
The same woman I haven’t heard from for almost ten years. The same woman I never got to explain anything to. The one who broke up with me in a stupid letter—merely weeks before we were supposed to move to Vancouver together.
“Why would she be here?” I mutter aloud, mostly to myself.
Taewon answers anyway, his shoulder lifting in a shrug. “She’s listed as the senior M&A strategy consultant on file. Grace Miller’s shadow, basically. I only learned that today.”
I swallow hard.
Of course. Of course she is. A Stanford MBA would never fail a woman like her.
But dammit, she’s not just here to audit spreadsheets and sign NDAs. She had to have known exactly who she’d be consulting with, for the merger between Wentworths and fucking Astor Holdings.
Which means—
“Fuck,” I whisper. “She knew, huh.”
“Knew what?”
“She knew she’d be working with me. Miller-Moore approached us, remember? She’s definitely known for weeks—probably longer.”
And I had no idea.
Something twists deep in my chest. Because if Iris had known about this meeting and still agreed to show up, then that’s not entirely professional. That’s something else. Something I don’t know how to read.
Is it reconciliation? Curiosity? Closure? Or something else entirely?
“They can be here by six,” Taewon says gently. “I can postpone if you want—”
“No.” My voice cuts sharper than I intend. “No, I’ll… we’ll do this. It’s fine.”
It’s not.
A beat of silence.
“Okay,” he says finally, then adds, “I’ll get the conference room prepped.”
After he walks out of my office, I stare at the documents strewn across my desk. Documents that are taking a different meaning altogether. Weaving themselves with a shadow of my past. A love that never got to live past the fleeting moments in lecture halls and ice-cream runs.
Then I walk to the mirrored console in my office, tug my cuffs, and stare at the man staring back.
He’s paler than usual.
Tighter. Older.
He doesn’t look ready for a confrontation. He looks like a man who buried a part of himself nearly a decade ago.
Only to find out she’s come back with a fucking briefcase.
??????
TEN YEARS AGO
Me: You there, baby?
Me: Iris, are we still on for 8?
Me: ???
I stare at the unanswered texts. It’s not normal for Iris to just never respond.
The moment I step into my rented apartment, my heart is in my throat. Fearing something terrible has happened. But when I almost slip on a piece of envelope near the entrance, I freeze.
It’s addressed to me. My name glaring at me with the handwriting I’ve seen too many times in the notes I often copy from Iris.
What the fuck?
I hastily pick it up, tearing it open with more force than required.
A letter? A fucking letter?
What the hell did I miss between having breakfast at her apartment and now? Merely ten hours later.
Her words stare back at me as I collapse on my couch. My eyes stinging immediately as I read the first lines.
She’s been pulling back for the past few weeks. But I’d never imagined—never dreamed—it would come to this.
Levi,
I debated whether this letter was necessary. Whether it would be kinder to just leave quietly and let you piece it together in your own time. But I figured I owed you the truth, even if it’s not the version you were hoping for.
I won’t be meeting you at the Conservatory tonight. Or ever again.
I’ve accepted an offer from another firm in Los Angeles. It’s full-time, competitive, and everything I’ve worked toward since I knew what the word “consulting” even meant. It starts in two weeks. And I’m leaving today. I might already be gone when you read this.
It wouldn’t make sense to follow you to Vancouver. The firm I’d have joined doesn’t fit me. And I’m not ready to slow down or bend myself to match someone else’s path. I’m twenty-three, and I want to choose myself without apologizing for it. But I am sorry for breaking us while I did that.
This decision wasn’t easy, but it’s what’s right for me.
I don’t want to be the girl who gave it all up for a boy only to resent you in the future. I want more than to just become a cliché. We both deserve more than that.
I’m sorry, Levi. I’m sorry because there was a version of this story where we made it work. But this isn’t that version.
I hope you remember the Conservatory the same way I will. The sound of that old piano in the corner. The orchids you hated but still brought me.
The rooftop we weren’t supposed to climb but did anyway.
It was beautiful.
But it was also enough.
Goodbye, Levi.
- Iris
My ears ring at the last sentence.
Goodbye.
That’s it? That’s fucking it? After a year and a half of everything—of perfect, messy, beautiful us—this is how she ends it?
Not a call. Not a word, but on paper. Just ink that smells like distance.
The letter crumples slightly under my fingers, but I can’t bring myself to tear it. My eyes sting and blur over the same lines I’ve already read ten times.
‘I want to choose myself.’
‘It wouldn’t make sense to follow you to Vancouver.’
‘I’m sorry, Levi.’
Are you, really?
Fuck. She chose her words with the same precision she used when solving case studies. Measured. Detached. Polite.
And I hate her for it. For being so calm while my chest feels like it’s collapsing in on itself.
I slam the letter down on the coffee table, breathing hard. My throat burns, my hands shake.
She could’ve told me. She could’ve looked at me and said it wasn’t working. That she was scared. That we were moving too fast, perhaps.
We could’ve figured it out. We could’ve found a middle ground, like we always did. But instead, she took that choice away.
She didn’t give me a chance to fight for her. For us. To find a way out of a dilemma she didn’t even tell me about.
But through the anger, the disbelief, the gut-deep ache—all I can feel is my heart breaking.
Because she didn’t just leave.
She erased me.
I’m a lesson, not a destination.