Chapter 12 #2
I try to think rationally through the haze of hurt clouding my mind.
Perhaps it's not certain yet. Perhaps he's still deciding.
Perhaps there's an explanation that makes sense of his pursuit alongside his plans to leave.
But none of these possibilities erase the central betrayal: he kept this from me.
Deliberately. While pushing for increasing intimacy, increasing commitment, increasing connection.
The memory of our night at his penthouse takes on a sickening new cast. His vulnerability about his parents' death, his admission about fear driving his need for control—was any of it genuine?
Or just another calculated approach when his initial possessive strategy met resistance?
The thought that he might have manipulated my empathy, used my growing understanding of his past to further his pursuit while knowing it had an expiration date—it makes me physically ill.
My phone buzzes again. And again. Then a text: Sophie, please call me. There's been a misunderstanding. I need to explain.
Misunderstanding. Such a convenient word for someone caught in a lie of omission. There's nothing to misunderstand about "European headquarters" and "at least two years overseas." The clarity is brutal in its simplicity.
Another text appears: Where are you? I'm worried.
The concern would be touching if it weren't so hypocritical. Where was this worry for my feelings when he was planning his European relocation while simultaneously telling me I was his? Where was this concern for honesty during our supposedly intimate conversations?
I stand, brushing snow from my coat, a cold determination replacing the initial shock and hurt.
I won't be another acquisition for Christian Hawthorne, another prize he claims temporarily before moving on to the next challenge.
I deserve more than to be someone's fleeting interest, someone's American diversion before their European adventure.
The diamond snowflake—his possessive gift—sits on my dresser at home.
I need to return it. Need to make a clean break before I fall any deeper, before the inevitable end hurts even more than it already does.
The thought of facing him, of maintaining my resolve under the intensity of his gaze, makes my stomach clench.
But I need this closure. Need to end things on my terms rather than waiting for him to discard me when he boards that plane to Munich or London or Paris.
My phone rings again. This time, it's Lily. I answer, knowing I need to hold myself together for this conversation.
"Hey, everything okay?" she asks immediately. "Christian Hawthorne just called the shop looking for you. Sounded pretty frantic."
"I'm fine," I lie, my voice steadier than I feel. "Just a miscommunication about a delivery."
"Uh-huh," Lily says, clearly not believing me. "And that's why he called three times in ten minutes? Sophie, what's going on?"
"I'll tell you later," I promise. "Can you handle the shop for the rest of the day? I need to take care of something."
"Of course, but—"
"Thanks, Lily. I'll explain everything tomorrow." I end the call before she can press further, before my composure cracks and the truth spills out.
I flag down a taxi, giving the driver the address to my place where I run inside and grab the gift and then Christian's building.
My phone buzzes continuously as Christian alternates between calls and increasingly urgent texts.
I silence it completely, slipping it into my bag.
I need clarity, focus, determination for what comes next. No distractions, no weakening resolve.
The taxi weaves through downtown traffic as snow falls harder, blanketing the city in white.
How appropriate—a clean slate, a fresh covering over everything that came before.
By the time we arrive at Christian's building, I've rehearsed what I'll say, how I'll remain composed, how I'll make it clear that I won't be another temporary acquisition in his collection.
I pay the driver and step out into the swirling snow, looking up at the penthouse levels of the luxury high-rise.
Somewhere up there is the tree we decorated together, the piano where he played Chopin, the sofa where we talked about vulnerability and trust. All of it built on a foundation of omitted truths and undisclosed plans.
The doorman recognizes me—of course he does; Christian would have made sure of that—and nods me toward the private elevator. "Mr. Hawthorne called down about you, Ms. Winters. Said to send you up immediately when you arrived."
So he anticipated I'd come here. Of course he did. Christian Hawthorne, always three steps ahead, always in control of every variable. Except me. I won't be controlled or manipulated or temporarily claimed until he's ready to move on.
The private elevator requires a keycard, which I don't have. Good. Let him come down to me, out of his carefully controlled domain. Let him face me on more neutral ground.
"Please tell Mr. Hawthorne I'm in the lobby," I tell the doorman. "I'd prefer to speak with him here."
The man looks uncertain but makes the call. I stand in the center of the marble lobby, back straight, chin up, heart breaking beneath my carefully composed exterior. Preparing to end whatever this was before it can end me.
The diamond snowflake sits heavy in my coat pocket, its weight a reminder of everything I thought was beginning between us. Everything that was apparently nothing more than a temporary claim before his next conquest, his next acquisition, his next life across an ocean.
The private elevator doors open less than two minutes after the doorman's call.
Christian strides across the marble lobby, his usual controlled demeanor replaced by something I've never seen before—urgency bordering on desperation.
His tie is loosened, his hair slightly disheveled, as if he's been running his fingers through it repeatedly.
His eyes find mine immediately, relief washing over his features before registering my expression, my stance, the distance I'm deliberately maintaining between us.
He slows his approach, wariness replacing relief.
Good. He should be wary. I'm not here for reconciliation.
"Sophie," he says, my name emerging like a breath he's been holding. "What happened? Why did you leave like that?"
I reach into my pocket, withdrawing the diamond snowflake ornament. The overhead lights catch its facets, sending prisms dancing across the marble floor between us. "I came to return this."
His eyes fix on the ornament, then return to my face, understanding dawning. "You overheard something in my office."
"About your European relocation," I confirm, keeping my voice steady despite the renewed ache in my chest. "The one that's been 'in the works for months.' The one that will take you overseas for years."
Christian takes another step toward me. I step back, maintaining the distance. Something flashes across his face—frustration, impatience, determination. All familiar expressions, but tinged now with an edge of what looks reBenably like fear.
"It's a potential acquisition," he says, his tone measured, controlled. "One of several I'm considering. Nothing is decided."
"That's not the point," I counter, the ornament still extended between us like a shield. "The point is you never mentioned it. Not once, during all your declarations about wanting me, claiming me, making me yours."
"Because it isn't relevant to us," he insists, gesturing between us. "To what's developing here."
A harsh laugh escapes me before I can stop it. "Not relevant? You're considering moving to another continent for years, and you don't think that's relevant to a relationship you claim to want?"
His jaw tightens, that muscle I've come to recognize ticking in his cheek. "If I decide to proceed with the European acquisition, arrangements can be made. There are options."
"Options," I repeat, the word tasting bitter. "Like what? A long-distance relationship with a man I've known for two weeks? Moving to Europe to follow someone who couldn't even be honest about his plans?"
Christian runs a hand through his hair, confirming my earlier suspicion about its dishevelment. "I was going to tell you when the time was right. When things were more settled between us."
"More settled?" I shake my head in disbelief. "You told me I was yours. You gave me a diamond ornament with your claim literally engraved on it. You pushed for 'mine' while knowing you might leave. That's not about timing, Christian. That's about honesty."
He steps forward again, more insistent this time. I hold my ground, refusing to retreat further in this public space. "I've been honest about my feelings for you," he says, his voice dropping lower, more intense. "About what I want from us."
"Except for the part where there might not be an 'us' because you'll be in Munich or London or Paris," I counter. "That's a pretty significant omission for someone who claims to value honesty and directness."
His expression hardens slightly, the businessman reasserting himself beneath the desperation. "I don't make business decisions based on personal relationships. The European acquisition has been in development for over a year. It's a strategic move that could double the company's Benet share."
The clinical assessment, the prioritization of business over whatever exists between us—it cuts deeper than I expected. "Thank you for clarifying where I stand in your hierarchy of concerns," I say, unable to keep the hurt from my voice. "At least now I know."
"That's not what I meant," he says quickly, frustration evident. "Sophie, you're twisting my words."
"Am I? Or am I finally seeing clearly what this has been all along?" I hold up the ornament, letting it catch the light again. "A temporary claim. A fleeting possession. Something to enjoy until the next acquisition demands your attention."
Christian's face pales, genuine shock replacing frustration. "Is that what you think? That you're some kind of…temporary diversion?"
"What am I supposed to think? You pursue me with single-minded intensity. You declare I'm yours. You insist on connection and commitment. All while knowing you might leave. What would you call that?"
He moves closer, close enough now that I can smell his cologne, see the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
Close enough that my traitorous heart accelerates despite my brain's warnings.
"I call it finding something—someone—unexpected and important.
Important enough that it complicates decisions I thought were straightforward. "
The sincerity in his voice nearly breaks my resolve. For a moment—just a moment—I allow myself to consider that I might be misjudging his intentions, that there might be an explanation that makes sense of everything.
But then he continues: "The European deal isn't final. If it happens, we can arrange something workable. My jet can cross the Atlantic in hours. You could visit regularly. Eventually, perhaps relocate your business—"
And just like that, my wavering resolve hardens again.
Always the strategist, always the one making plans and arrangements, expecting others to fall in line with his vision.
"Do you hear yourself?" I interrupt. "You're already planning how to fit me into your life decisions—decisions you made without consulting me, without even informing me they existed. "
"Because they're not final!" he repeats, exasperation creeping into his tone. "Sophie, you're overreacting to incomplete information. If you'd just listen—"
"Overreacting?" The word hits like a slap. "Is that what you call it when someone expects basic honesty from a person they're becoming involved with?"
His expression shifts, realizing his mistake too late. "That's not what I meant."
"It's exactly what you meant," I say, suddenly exhausted by all of it—the arguing, the hurt, the effort of maintaining my composure in this public place.
"You thought you could control this situation like you control everything else.
Decided what information I needed, when I needed it.
Made plans that affect us both while only consulting yourself. "
I step forward, placing the diamond ornament in his hand, curling his fingers around it when he doesn't immediately take it. "I won't be managed or controlled, Christian. Not even by someone I was starting to fall for."
The past tense—"was"—lands between us with deliberate weight. His fingers tighten around the ornament, knuckles whitening with the pressure.
"Sophie," he says, my name emerging like a plea. "Don't do this. Not without hearing me out completely."
"I've heard enough," I tell him, stepping back, creating distance again. "I hope your European acquisition works out exactly as you've planned. I hope the next woman you decide to claim gets the full disclosure I didn't."
I turn to leave, my composure fracturing with each step toward the exit. Behind me, I hear Christian call my name again, more commanding this time. The voice that expects to be obeyed, that demands attention, that refuses to be ignored.
I keep walking.
For once in his charmed, controlled existence, Christian Hawthorne doesn't get what he wants. Doesn't get to explain away his omissions or strategize a solution or rearrange reality to suit his preferences. For once, someone walks away from him instead of toward him.
The cold December air hits me like a physical blow as I push through the revolving doors, snow still falling in thick flakes that cling to my hair, my eyelashes, my coat.
I walk blindly, vision blurred by tears I refuse to shed until I'm safely alone.
Away from the doorman's curious gaze, away from the possibility of Christian following me, away from the man who made me feel precious and valued while withholding information that directly impacted our potential future.
Behind me, the gleaming tower of Hawthorne Enterprises rises against the winter sky, a monument to ambition and calculation and control. A reminder of everything Christian is—and everything I was foolish enough to think might be compatible with who I am, what I need, what I deserve.
I keep walking, snow covering my tracks, erasing the path back to him.