Chapter 12
Chapter
Twelve
SOPHIE
The Hawthorne Enterprises headquarters rises forty stories above downtown Evergreen, a gleaming tower of glass and steel that seems to pierce the winter sky like a declaration of ambition made physical.
I clutch the carefully packaged box of custom ornaments—Christian's fifty-piece order completed ahead of schedule—and try not to feel intimidated as I approach the revolving doors.
It's been three days since our evening at his penthouse, three days of replaying every moment: decorating his tree, his unexpected laughter during dinner, the diamond snowflake with my name and that single, possessive word.
Mine. I've analyzed that evening from every angle, trying to reconcile my wariness about his controlling nature with my growing certainty that there's something real developing between us—something worth exploring despite the red flags.
Christian has called each day since, our conversations growing longer and more personal each time.
Last night, we talked for nearly two hours, about everything from childhood memories to future aspirations.
I told him things I rarely share—about my parents' divorce, about the loneliness of being shuttled between homes, about finding stability in my grandmother's shop.
He listened with an intensity that made me feel truly heard, truly seen.
And in return, he offered glimpses behind his carefully constructed walls—stories of his early business struggles, the ruthless determination that built his empire, the emptiness of success without anyone to share it with.
The security guard at the desk eyes me with professional suspicion until I mention Christian's name. His demeanor changes immediately. "Ms. Winters? Mr. Hawthorne mentioned you might be stopping by. Thirty-eighth floor, executive suites. They're expecting you."
The private elevator—accessible only with a keycard the guard provides—whisks me upward with disorienting speed.
My stomach flutters, partly from the rapid ascent, partly from anticipation of seeing Christian again.
This is his domain, his world of corporate power and wealth.
So different from my small shop with its handmade ornaments and personal touches.
The elevator opens directly into a reception area decorated in the same minimalist style as Christian's penthouse—all sleek lines, neutral colors, and carefully placed artwork that probably costs more than my annual revenue.
A stylish woman in her thirties sits behind a curved desk, speaking quietly into a headset.
She holds up one finger when she sees me, indicating I should wait.
I stand awkwardly with my package, taking in the impressive view of the mountains visible through floor-to-ceiling windows.
Christian's office must have the same panoramic vista, another symbol of his position at the very top of everything he surveys.
The thought brings a small smile to my face—so characteristic of him, to position himself where he can see everything, control everything.
Except me. I'm the variable he can't quite control, though not for lack of trying. The diamond ornament was proof of that—both his possessive instinct and his growing understanding of why it exists, why it matters to him.
"I understand the Munich team needs an answer by Friday," the receptionist says into her headset, her voice lowered but still audible in the quiet space.
"But Mr. Hawthorne is still weighing the European headquarters relocation.
It's a significant commitment—at least two years overseas while the acquisition integrates. "
My heart stutters in my chest. European headquarters? Two years overseas? The words hit me like physical blows, each one more disorienting than the last.
"Yes, I'm aware it's been in the works for months," the receptionist continues, unaware of my presence or the effect her words are having.
"The London and Paris options are still on the table too, but Munich seems to be leading…
Yes, I'll make sure those documents are on his desk for review this afternoon. "
My fingers tighten around the package I'm holding, the carefully tied ribbon suddenly seeming foolish, childish. I feel dizzy, disconnected from reality. Christian is considering relocating to Europe. For years. A deal that's been "in the works for months."
Months during which he's been pursuing me with single-minded determination. Months during which he's been telling me I'm his, that what's developing between us matters, that he sees a future where we're connected in ways that go beyond the temporary.
All while planning to leave the country. Without mentioning it once during our increasingly intimate conversations.
The receptionist finally notices me standing there, her professional smile faltering slightly as she registers my expression.
"I need to go," she says into her headset.
"Ms. Winters has arrived." She disconnects and rises, extending her hand.
"I'm Vanessa, Mr. Hawthorne's executive assistant.
I apologize for the wait. He's just wrapping up a meeting. "
"European headquarters?" The words slip out before I can stop them, my voice embarrassingly small.
Vanessa's carefully composed features freeze for a fraction of a second—long enough to confirm that I wasn't meant to hear that conversation, that the information isn't public knowledge.
"Mr. Hawthorne considers multiple business opportunities at any given time," she says smoothly.
"I'm sure he'd be happy to discuss any questions you might have directly. "
But her eyes tell a different story. Pity, perhaps. Or understanding of exactly what I've just realized—that I'm a temporary diversion for a man whose real priorities lie elsewhere. A local amusement while he finalizes plans that have been in motion long before he bid on that charity dance.
The diamond snowflake with its possessive declaration takes on an entirely different meaning now. Not a promise of future commitment but a fleeting claim of ownership. Temporary. Disposable when no longer convenient.
"I need to go," I say, setting the package on her desk with hands that have gone numb. "Please tell Mr. Hawthorne these are the ornaments he ordered. Already paid for. No need for follow-up."
"He's expecting to see you personally," Vanessa says, concern creeping into her professional demeanor. "He cleared his schedule for the next hour specifically—"
"An emergency at the shop," I cut her off, already backing toward the elevator. "Please let him know I'm sorry I couldn't stay."
She doesn't believe me—that much is obvious from her expression—but she nods, reaching for her phone. Probably to alert Christian that I'm fleeing his office like the building's on fire.
Which is exactly what it feels like. My chest burns, my throat tight with humiliation and hurt.
I jab repeatedly at the elevator button, praying it arrives before Christian emerges from his meeting.
I can't face him right now, not with this raw wound still bleeding.
Not when I've just discovered that everything between us has an expiration date he never bothered to mention.
The elevator doors open, and I stumble inside, pressing the button for the lobby with shaking fingers.
As the doors slide closed, I catch a glimpse of Christian rounding the corner into the reception area, his expression shifting from anticipation to confusion when he spots me in the departing elevator.
Too late. The doors close, sealing me away from his questioning gaze, carrying me downward and away from the man I've been foolish enough to start falling for.
The man who's been planning his exit strategy all along.
I make it to the street before the first tear falls.
Then another. And another. I walk blindly, not caring where I'm going as long as it's away from Hawthorne Enterprises, away from Christian, away from my own staggering naiveté.
How could I have been so stupid? The signs were all there—his intensity, his rush to claim me, his diamond declaration of "Mine.
" Not the actions of a man building something lasting, but of someone seizing what he wants in the moment, collecting another acquisition before moving on to the next challenge. The next continent.
A deal "in the works for months," his assistant said.
Months during which Christian pursued me with single-minded determination.
Months during which he never once mentioned that he was planning to leave the country for years.
Not during our dance at the gala, not during our dinner at Archer's, not even three nights ago at his penthouse when he spoke of connection and commitment while hanging that damned ornament on his tree.
I find myself in a small park a few blocks from his building, collapsing onto a bench as my legs finally give out.
The winter air is sharp in my lungs, each breath painful as reality continues to sink in.
Snow begins to fall, delicate flakes that seem to mock the diamond snowflake he gave me—both beautiful, both cold, both ultimately melting away to nothing.
My phone buzzes in my pocket. Christian, of course.
The first of what will undoubtedly be many attempts to reach me after my abrupt departure from his office.
I silence it without looking, unable to face his explanations or justifications right now.
What could he possibly say? "Sorry I forgot to mention I'm moving to Europe while asking you to be mine"?
"I thought you'd make a nice distraction until I leave"?