Chapter Thirty-One
NATALIA
It’s been four days since I left Seattle, and Luka’s expression told me he wasn’t willing to try anymore.
The lobby of Legacy PR smells like citrus cleaner and expensive perfume, and I used to think that smell meant belonging and stability. Now it feels like walking into a version of my life that doesn’t fit me anymore.
I adjust my laptop bag over my shoulder again, busying my hands. A few heads turn as I pass reception. It’s subtle, but I catch it anyway.
I’m no longer the agent whose successful career turned into a dumpster fire after my last account went up in flames.
I’m the woman who handled Popovich, and my legacy is now restored. The woman who turned a global mess into a win that made investors happy. It’s validation that I'm good at what I do—proof. The problem is, it feels empty and worthless now. None of them know what that restoration cost me.
It cost me Luka.
I walk down the hall and see Molly walking towards me with a stack of files. She’s probably walking over to scan in. She smiles and then whispers, "You’ve got this," with a wink as we pass each other. But it doesn’t feel like I got this.
Every step feels oddly quiet inside my own head. Not like a calming feeling, or a numbness. I feel almost detached from this entire moment.
The assistant outside the conference room barely looks up. "They’re ready for you."
I push open the door.
Gabriella sits at the head of the table, tablet in front of her, coffee untouched.
She’s dressed the way she always is—like she was born negotiating power.
Carey sits to her right, one leg crossed over the other, posture relaxed, mouth curved in that faint, satisfied way that makes my skin want to crawl.
Carey looks like a woman on her way to an award ceremony.
And in a sense, she is. Her firm must be delighted with what she accomplished here… rather, what I accomplished.
"Natalia. Welcome back," Gabriella says, glancing up quickly and then back to her tablet. "Take a seat."
I take the chair opposite them, setting my laptop bag down carefully, even though I don’t plan on opening it.
I’ve sat in rooms like this my entire career, waiting for someone in charge to tell me whether I’m worth keeping.
Whether I hold any value for them. Not unlike what my father did twenty-four years ago.
Gabriella doesn’t waste time.
"First," she says, "I want to be clear. I did not want the Popovich account."
Carey’s eyes flick to me, her eyebrows lifting quickly, and then a small smirk graces her face, as if she and I pulled something off. The last emotion I feel for her is camaraderie.
Gabriella continues, "You and Carey went against my recommendation. You took the risk, and if it had gone sideways, you would have owned the fallout."
I nod once. "Yes."
"And yet," Gabriella says, tapping her tablet, "our investors are thrilled."
She turns the tablet slightly so I can see the graph, but I barely register the numbers. Revenue spikes. Brand engagement. Growth projections. Charts that look like triumph.
Gabriella’s gaze stays on me. "Randolph called me personally."
My stomach tightens.
"Not to complain," she adds, as if she senses the direction of my thoughts. "To congratulate us. He told me Legacy PR was the first firm he’s worked with in years that didn’t flinch under public pressure."
Carey’s smile deepens, barely.
Gabriella sits back. "He’s giving us his accounts."
The words hang there.
I blink. "His accounts?"
"Luka’s," Gabriella says, "and the rest. Randolph represents more than Popovich. He’s part of a larger agency network, and that network is now funneling clients in our direction."
This is the kind of pipeline agents build careers on. Gabriella watches my face for a reaction, probably expecting gratitude or excitement, but I give her neither. I couldn’t fake it even if I wanted to.
"This is the type of business expansion investors like to see," she says. "This is the kind of outcome that justifies our fees. It’s the kind of outcome that raises our valuation."
Carey leans forward slightly, elbows on the table as if she’s settling in to watch something entertaining.
"And it’s why," Gabriella adds, "I’m assigning Randolph’s accounts to you."
My breath catches, not because it’s a dream come true, but because I can already see the trap hidden inside the gift.
"You’ll oversee the relationship," Gabriella says, "with full support. This is a high-profile portfolio. If you manage it the way you handled Popovich, there’s a promotion path here for you, Natalia. I’ve already approved accounting to reimburse your entire trip. It was well worth it."
A promotion.
A raise.
A title that would have made my stomach flip with pride a month ago.
I stare at Gabriella for a moment, waiting for my body to do what it used to do—buzz with adrenaline, accept the offering, latch onto the goal.
Instead, I hear Luka’s voice in my head.
Feelings are leverage.
And then Carey’s text, glowing on my phone like a bruise.
I don’t normally condone sleeping with the client to advance your career.
The room feels smaller now when this place used to feel like a fortress. I fold my hands on the table so they don’t shake.
"You mean solutions like the one you used on Luka," I say quietly.
Gabriella’s brow lifts slightly. "What do you mean?"
"I mean tactics that break the trust between us and our client," I answer, voice steady. "Tactics the client explicitly asked us not to use."
Carey’s smile turns sharp. "Oh, we’re doing this."
Gabriella’s gaze doesn’t leave mine. "You’re framing this as betrayal."
"It was," I say.
Carey laughs softly as if I’ve said something cute. "It got us results."
I look at Carey. "He asked me not to tell anyone. He made me promise. You took that information and used it without his consent."
Carey’s expression doesn’t change. "We took a narrative and redirected it before it destroyed him."
"At the cost of his trust," I reply.
Gabriella’s voice remains measured. "Natalia, our job is not to build relationships.
Our job," Gabriella continues, "is to protect the client’s reputation. Even when the client does not understand the full scope of what’s necessary.
They hire us because they need outcomes, not because they want a friend. "
Carey nods, satisfied. "Exactly."
I stare down at the tabletop for a second because if I look at either of them too long, my patience will snap in a way I don’t want it to.
When I look back up, I keep my tone even.
"And what about consent?" I ask. "What about the client’s boundaries? He said no. He was clear."
Carey shrugs. "Clients say no all the time. Then they thank you when you save them."
"He didn’t thank you," I say quietly.
Carey’s eyes flash. "He doesn’t have to. He’s safer now."
"He’s not," I reply, the words coming out before I can soften them. "He’s damaged. He ran because he believes people use him. And you proved him right."
Gabriella’s expression tightens slightly, not with anger, but with impatience.
"Natalia," she says, "you’re getting personal. That is not the business model."
I swallow. Because that’s the heart of it, isn’t it? That in this room, 'personal' is the same as 'weak'. I’ve spent my entire life trying not to be either.
I think of my mom’s voice from before I left for Arizona. Her advice when she saw me crying over Luka.
You’re good at protecting people. You have a huge heart. You could do anything with that skill set.
I take a slow breath. "I can’t do this," I say.
Gabriella blinks once. "You can’t do what?"
"This," I repeat. "This kind of work. This kind of winning."
Carey’s brows lift. "You’re joking."
I shake my head.
Gabriella’s tone hardens slightly. "Natalia, you’re standing in front of a career-making opportunity."
"I know," I say. "And if this had been three weeks ago, I would have thanked you for it."
"You’re turning it down because you feel guilty about a client’s feelings?"
It would be easy to get defensive. To argue and to justify, but instead, I’m giving them the truth.
"I’m turning it down because I don’t want to become the kind of person who can do that to someone and call it a win."
Carey scoffs. "So what, you’re quitting because you grew a conscience in Switzerland?"
I ignore her and look at Gabriella, who is watching me as if she’s deciding whether I’m serious.
"I’ve given years of my life to this firm," I say quietly. "I’ve missed holidays, weddings, baby showers. I built my identity around being the person who fixes disasters. But if fixing them means breaking people, then I don’t want it anymore."
Gabriella’s mouth tightens. "You’ll regret this."
"Maybe," I admit. "But I’ll regret staying more."
The silence that follows is heavy, but it’s not dramatic. It’s the kind of silence that happens when a decision has already been made and everyone in the room knows it.
Gabriella exhales slowly and taps something on her tablet. "Submit your resignation to HR. Per your contract you signed, you’ll have severance pay, assuming you sign the NDA."
I nod. Considering it’s an NDA for the state of Arizona, it doesn’t matter. It’s time for me to go back home, but she doesn’t need to know that.
Carey leans back, satisfied.
I stand, pick up my bag, and walk out without another word because if I stay in that room longer, I might start doubting myself, and doubt is how I’ve been controlled my whole life.
The hallway feels brighter than it did when I walked in. Not because the building changed, but because I did.
Molly is waiting outside my office, arms crossed, expression hopeful, like she already knows.
The moment she sees my face, she grins. "How did it go?"
I exhale. It comes out shaky and relieved all at once. "I quit. I’m going back to Seattle to start over."
She follows me into my office and closes the door behind us. "I’m proud of you," she says simply.
I laugh, but it sounds a little broken. "I have no idea what I’m doing."
"That’s a lie," she says, grabbing a box from the corner like she came prepared. "You know exactly what you’re doing. You’re choosing yourself."
Molly chatters as I pack, talking about listing my condo, shipping my belongings, and how the condo sale alone will give me leeway to breathe while I build something new.
"And if you ever need legal advice, I’m here to help. Just a call away."
I nod, listening, but my mind keeps drifting to Seattle.
To Luka and the fact that living close to him will hurt. Knowing that we’re in the same city but that he won’t want to see me. Luckily, the city is big, and it’s not likely that we’ll run into each other.
When I step outside into the desert heat with a cardboard box in my arms, the sun is too bright, and the air is too warm, and for the first time in years, it feels like I’m breathing without a deadline strapped to my back.
Five days later, I boarded a plane with my life already in transit—boxes shipped, condo paperwork started, my old world closing behind me in quiet, practical steps.
As the plane lifts off, I stare out the window and let my eyes burn.
Seattle is waiting.
So is the life I have no idea how to build.
And somewhere in that city is Luka Popovich, close enough to touch if he would let me, and far enough away to break me if I keep reaching.
I’m not chasing him anymore.
I’m choosing something else.