Chapter 20
TWENTY
Elliot
The Harrison contract sits open on my desk, a testament to professional success that should give me satisfaction. The firm's managing partner stopped by this morning to personally congratulate me, strongly hinting that partnership discussions would begin earlier than expected. Everything I've worked toward for the past five years, presented to me like a gift. Yet I've been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, unable to focus on anything beyond the echoing emptiness that's consumed me since Josie walked out of my office. Three weeks of hollow victories and sleepless nights, of catching myself reaching for her in empty sheets, of composing texts I never send and rehearsing apologies I'm too cowardly to deliver.
My phone buzzes with a text from Harrison himself, inviting me to his club for a celebratory drink. I should accept. Should continue cultivating this relationship that's so valuable to the firm. Instead, I set the phone aside, unable to summon even performative enthusiasm for networking opportunities I once would have prioritized above eating or sleeping.
A knock on my door interrupts this unproductive spiral. Claire enters without waiting for permission, a deviation from protocol that immediately puts me on alert.
"Your four o'clock canceled," she announces, setting a stack of documents on my desk with more force than necessary. "And you have these contracts to review by tomorrow morning."
"Thank you," I reply automatically, not really seeing the papers in front of me. "Is there anything else?"
Instead of leaving, she sits in one of the client chairs across from my desk, crossing her legs and regarding me with an expression I can't quite interpret.
"Yes, actually. You look terrible."
The blunt assessment startles me into actually focusing on her. "Excuse me?"
"You heard me." She gestures toward me with a flick of her wrist. "You haven't changed your tie in three days. You've been wearing the same expression as my nephew when his dog died. You've been snapping at associates who don't deserve it, canceling meetings without explanation, and staring into space instead of working."
"I appreciate your concern," I say stiffly, "but my personal state is not relevant to?—"
"It is when it affects your work," she interrupts, another unprecedented breach of our professional dynamic. "And when it makes my job harder because I have to manage your deteriorating mood on top of your schedule."
"I apologize if my behavior has been…difficult." The admission comes reluctantly. "I'll make the necessary adjustments."
Claire sighs, some of her professional facade slipping to reveal genuine concern. "Elliot, I've worked for you for four years. In that time, I've seen you handle impossible deadlines, difficult clients, and your father's quarterly performance reviews without breaking a sweat. The only thing that's ever rattled you was Josie Palmer."
The sound of her name is like a physical blow. "Ms. Palmer is no longer relevant to?—"
"Oh, stop it." Claire leans forward, her expression suddenly fierce. "She's completely relevant. You've been miserable since she left your apartment. Even more miserable since she came to the office. And you're going to continue being miserable until you fix whatever catastrophic misunderstanding happened between you."
"There was no misunderstanding." The lie tastes bitter. "We had an arrangement. It concluded. End of story."
"Right. And that's why you check your phone fifty times a day, why you've been sleeping in your office three nights a week, why you keep that little dog toy she forgot in your desk drawer."
My head snaps up. "How did you?—"
"I'm your assistant. I know everything." She stands, smoothing her skirt with practiced efficiency. "What I don't know is why you're choosing to be miserable when the solution is obvious."
"And what solution would that be?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.
"Apologize." She says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Admit you were wrong. Tell her how you feel instead of hiding behind work and pretending you're fine."
"It's not that simple."
"It never is," she concedes. "But ask yourself this: what's worse—risking rejection by being honest, or spending the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you hadn't been too proud to try?"
She leaves without waiting for a response, closing the door with a quiet click that nonetheless seems to echo in the sudden silence of my office.
Claire is right, though I'm reluctant to admit it even to myself. I've been miserable—functionally and efficiently miserable, but miserable nonetheless. Work, which has always been my sanctuary, now feels hollow. Success, which has driven me since childhood, tastes like ash. My apartment, once a perfectly ordered haven, now seems sterile and empty without Josie's chaos to balance it.
I miss her. Not just physically, though that ache is constant. I miss her laugh, her unfiltered commentary, the way she challenged me without fear or deference. I miss how she made me feel—not just desired, but seen. As if the person beneath the suits and credentials and family expectations was worth knowing.
And I threw it away. Based on a fragment of conversation, on my own deepest insecurities, I pushed away the one person who'd managed to breach the walls I've spent a lifetime constructing.
The realization crystallizes with sudden, painful clarity: nothing I achieve professionally will matter if I don't at least try to fix what I've broken with Josie. Partnership, success, Harrison's approval—none of it fills the Josie-shaped void in my life.
I stand abruptly, decision made. "Claire," I call, opening my door. "Cancel my remaining appointments for today."
"Already done," she replies, not even pretending not to have been eavesdropping. "And I took the liberty of having these delivered to your apartment an hour ago." She shows me a photo on her phone—a stunning arrangement of wildflowers, colorful and chaotic and perfect for Josie. "The doorman will give them to you on your way out."
For perhaps the first time in our professional relationship, I'm speechless.
"Go," she says simply. "Before you overthink it."
The drive to Greenwich Village is an exercise in anxiety I haven't experienced since my first major court appearance. I rehearse what to say, discard each attempt as inadequate, start again. Nothing seems sufficient to address the magnitude of my mistake or the depth of what I feel for her.
By the time I park near her building—a walk-up that's seen better decades—I've worked myself into a state of nervous tension that would shock anyone who knows me professionally. I retrieve the flowers from the passenger seat, their vibrant colors a stark contrast to my navy suit and the gray day around us.
The building has no doorman, just a panel of buzzers with handwritten names beside them. I find "Palmer/Chen/Rodriguez" beside apartment 4C and press it before I can second-guess myself.
"If you're the pizza guy, we didn't order yet but please wait while I find my wallet," a male voice answers—one of her roommates, presumably.
"I'm not…delivering pizza," I reply, feeling ridiculous. "I'm here to see Josie Palmer."
A pause, then the voice returns, noticeably cooler. "And you are?"
"Elliot Carrington."
Another pause, longer this time, followed by a muffled conversation I can't quite make out. Finally, the buzzer sounds, unlocking the door. I step into a narrow hallway that smells faintly of curry and disinfectant, then begin the climb to the fourth floor.
Each step seems to increase the weight in my chest. What if she refuses to see me? What if she's moved on? What if the damage I've done is irreparable? I've faced hostile witnesses, aggressive opposing counsel, even my father's disappointment, yet nothing has terrified me like the prospect of Josie Palmer closing her door in my face.
I reach 4C, adjusting my tie in a nervous gesture I never allow myself in professional settings. Before I can knock, the door swings open, revealing a lanky young man with a skeptical expression.
"So you're the suit," he says, giving me a once-over that makes me feel like I'm being assessed for dissection. "Marco. Roommate. Currently debating whether to let you in or push you back down the stairs."
"I understand your hesitation," I reply, striving for a tone that's conciliatory without being defensive. "I'd like to speak with Josie, if she's willing."
"She's not," a familiar voice calls from inside the apartment. "Tell him to leave his flowers and his apology at the door and go back to his tower, Marco."
My heart contracts at the sound of her voice, even laced with anger as it is. "Josie, please. Five minutes."
Marco looks between the door and me, clearly torn between loyalty to his friend and some other consideration. "The flowers are nice," he offers, as if this might help my case. "Very not-boring."
"Marco, I swear to god, if you let him in—" Josie appears in the doorway, freezing mid-sentence when she sees me. She looks both exactly as I remember and somehow different—hair piled messily atop her head, paint smudged across one cheekbone, wearing overalls splattered with colors that should clash but somehow work together. She's beautiful in a way that makes my rehearsed speeches evaporate instantly.
"You have some nerve," she says after a moment of charged silence.
"I know." I hold out the flowers like an offering, like a shield. "These are for you. Though they're entirely inadequate."
"Damn right they are." But she takes them, her fingers brushing mine in the exchange. Their fingers brushed, and they felt a spark—static from the dry air, but it jolted them nonetheless. "Five minutes. Then you leave."
Marco slips away with surprising tact, disappearing into another room and closing the door. Josie leads me into a small living room cluttered with mismatched furniture, art supplies, and what appears to be a half-assembled dog bed. The space is chaotic but vibrant, so essentially Josie that it makes my chest ache.
"Well?" She sets the flowers on a coffee table made from what looks like a repurposed cable spool. "Four minutes and thirty seconds left."
"I'm sorry," I begin, the words feeling woefully inadequate. "For everything. For misunderstanding what I overheard. For pushing you away. For what I said in my office."
"Which part specifically?" Her arms cross over her chest, a physical barrier between us. "The part where you implied I slept with you for money, or the part where you said none of it was real?"
"All of it," I admit, forcing myself to meet her gaze directly. "Every word was a lie. What we shared was real, Josie. The realest thing I've experienced in longer than I can remember."
Something flickers in her expression—a softening, maybe, though she maintains her defensive posture. "Then why? Why push me away like that? Why say such cruel things when I came to your office?"
"Because I was terrified," I admit, the confession costing me more than any legal defeat ever could. "I heard you talking about the money, about how it was 'always the point,' and I convinced myself that was all I was to you—a means to financial stability."
"You heard one part of a conversation and decided you knew everything," she says, but there's less heat in her voice now. "Did it ever occur to you to ask me what I meant?"
"No," I acknowledge. "Because asking would have meant risking the answer. It was easier to push you away first, to control the narrative, than to face the possibility that what I feared might be true."
"And what were you so afraid of, Elliot?" She steps closer, challenge in her eyes. "Really?"
"That you couldn't possibly feel for me what I feel for you," I say, the words emerging with surprising steadiness given how exposed I feel. "That someone as vibrant and genuine as you could never truly want someone as controlled and rigid as me. That without the financial incentive, there would be no reason for you to stay."
Her expression shifts, surprise replacing some of the anger. "You really believe that? That I couldn't want you for yourself?"
"I've spent my life being valued for what I can provide—success, status, financial security. Never just for who I am." The admission feels like removing armor I've worn so long I've forgotten it's not my skin. "You were never fake with me, Josie. Not once. But I've been pretending to be someone else my entire life."
"Elliot..." My name on her lips is softer now, the edge of anger dulled.
"You asked me once what I wanted beyond making partner and impressing old men with traditional values," I continue, stepping closer, close enough to catch the faint scent of paint and something floral that's uniquely her. "The answer is you. I want you, Josie. Your chaos, your honesty, your ability to see through every defense I've built. I love you. And I understand if it's too late, if I've ruined everything with my own insecurity and stubborn pride, but I needed you to know the truth."
She stares at me, eyes wide and searching, as if looking for any sign of insincerity. I meet her gaze openly, all pretense and protection stripped away.
"You hurt me," she says finally, her voice barely above a whisper. "Badly."
"I know. And I'll spend however long you'll let me making up for that."
"And if I say I need time? If I'm not ready to forgive you yet?"
"Then I'll wait," I promise. "For as long as it takes. I'm not good at this, Josie. I've never done any of this before—falling in love, making grand gestures, laying my heart bare. But I'm trying. For you. Because you matter more than my pride or my fear or anything else."
Something in her expression shifts, softens. She takes one more step toward me, close enough now that I could touch her if I dared.
"Say it again," she demands, her voice stronger now.
"I love you."
And then she's moving, closing the distance between us like a force of nature, launching herself into my arms with such momentum I nearly lose my balance. Her mouth finds mine in a kiss that's equal parts anger and forgiveness, need and homecoming.
When we finally break apart, both breathing hard, she looks up at me with eyes that still hold a hint of wariness amid the warmth. "You don't get to run away again," she says, her hands fisted in my jacket lapels. "No matter how scared you get. No matter what you think you hear. You talk to me."
"I promise," I say, arms tightening around her waist, hardly able to believe she's really here, in my embrace again. "No more running. No more hiding behind work or control or anything else."
"Good." She kisses me again, softer this time. "Because I love you too, you impossible man. God help me, but I do."
The words fill a void I hadn't fully acknowledged until this moment. Not just relief that she forgives me, but something deeper—the knowledge that for the first time in my life, I am seen and wanted for exactly who I am, not what I can provide or achieve.
"Now," she says, a familiar mischievous glint returning to her eyes, "take me to your place and show me how sorry you really are."
And for once in my meticulously planned life, I do exactly as I'm told.