Chapter 23
Ross
Dinner with Margot has been a success. Thankfully, I’ve spent time with her several times over the last few weeks. I’m not with her right now, though.
I’m seated at Elias’s kitchen table. My phone buzzes. As I reach for it, my stomach tightens. I’m not anticipating a plea for my return. I’m waiting for Arthur’s blast radius.
Three weeks ago, I sat at this very table with Elias and forwarded a video file to the state Labor Board: a grainy, fisheye recording from Elias’s porch security camera of Arthur Keane.
I also included his texts and a written statement detailing his comments about my marriage and his refusal to accept my resignation.
It was undeniable proof of harassment and a hostile work environment.
The screen lights up, revealing Chan’s name. I haven’t spoken to him since I resigned. I pick it up, bracing myself.
“Calder?” Chan’s voice pierces through the phone, rapid and clipped. He sounds like a man looking over his shoulder. “Listen, I don’t have much time. You need to know, it’s over. The Board showed up this morning.”
The words hit me like a jolt, followed by a heavy, grounding wave of satisfaction. “They’re there?”
“They’re everywhere,” he replies, his voice dropping to a harsh whisper.
“They seized Arthur’s emails. That video you sent, Ross, it started everything.
The Board saw him screaming at a former employee on private property.
They saw the threats. Investors are threatening to walk.
The Board of Directors voted him out this morning. ”
I lean back in my chair, the wood creaking. I expected a fight. I expected Arthur to wriggle out of it. “He’s gone?”
“He’s done. Forced early retirement is the polite term they’re using in the press release, but he’s finished.
And the fallout… it’s catastrophic.” Chan lets out a shaky breath.
“The clients for the Dubai project caught wind of the investigation. They pulled the contract an hour ago. They don’t want their skyline associated with a firm under this kind of scrutiny. ”
I have little remorse for the project’s fate; mostly, I feel the vindication of a man who finally stopped letting a bully write his story.
“The place is falling apart,” Chan continues, the panic rising in his throat. “Now that you’re gone, and Arthur is out, the talent is bleeding. Tabitha started her own firm already. I’m looking around the bullpen now, and it’s a sinking ship. There’s no leadership.”
“It was a sinking ship when I was there, Chan. The difference is we had a gaslighting management who worked us until we passed out.”
“I know. God, I know.” There is a pause, and then Chan’s voice shifts. It loses the professional edge and becomes small, human. “I want to jump, Ross. I can’t stay here. The toxicity is seeping into the walls. But I don’t know where to go. I’ve been here ten years.”
I listen to the fear in his voice, the same fear that kept me shackled to a desk while my marriage disintegrated.
“Don’t look for the prestige or the name on the door,” I say, the advice coming easily, born from the calluses on my hands and the peace in my own chest. “Quit today, Chan. Pack your box and walk out.”
“And go where?”
“Somewhere that knows the difference between a deadline and a life. Trust me. The terrifying part isn’t leaving. It’s realizing how long you stayed.”
“You make it sound easy.”
“It’s not easy. But it’s worth it.”
Chan is silent for a long beat. “Okay,” he whispers. “Okay. Thanks, Ross. For everything.”
The weight of the phone in my hand feels lighter as I hang up, setting it down on the table with finality. The firm isn’t my problem anymore. Arthur isn’t my monster anymore. I look around the room, the remnants of chaos blending with the quiet that Elias has curated.
I let my fingers run through my hair, noticing the tremors in my hands have finally stopped. I lean against the table, absorbing the truth of it all.
There’s no longer a firm suffocating me, but a space to cultivate new ideas, new paths, new relationships.
For the first time in a long while, I can see a future unfurling before me, filled with possibility rather than dread. It feels strangely exhilarating, and as I absorb the gravity of this moment, I know this is the beginning of something entirely new.
The sun dips low, casting a warm glow across the park where we used to wander hand in hand. I walk beside her, the distance between us filled with memories and unresolved tension.
We settle onto a bench overlooking a small pond. I try to shake off the nerves, wrapping my fingers around the edge of the bench.
“Do you remember coming here when we first started dating?” I ask.
Margot’s lips curl into a small smile. “Yeah. We used to talk about our dreams. It felt endless.”
“It did,” I agree. “But I realized I didn’t build on any of that. I let my ambition drown out everything else.”
Margot looks at me, the weight of the past mingling with a hint of hope. “Ross, what does this mean now? For us?” she asks. “Are we talking about moving on, or something else?”
I take a breath. This is the responsible thing to do. The logical step.
“I found a small apartment,” I admit. “I’ll be moving out of Elias’s house next week. It’s a studio in the Arts District. I need to establish myself, to prove that I can stand on my own before I ask if there’s a future for us.”
I expect her to nod. I expect her to be relieved that I’m giving her space.
Instead, her body tenses. She stares at the water, her jaw setting in a way I haven’t seen in years.
“So you’re leaving,” she says flatly.
“No,” I counter, my voice steady. “I have to show myself, and you, that I’m making choices, not only reacting. I don’t want to rely on you for a roof over my head. I want to date you properly.”
“Date me properly,” she repeats, turning to face me. Her eyes are sharp, searching mine. “Ross, we tried ‘dating’ for five years. You took me to nice dinners, bought me flowers, and then you went to your office and hid.”
I flinch. “That’s not what I’m doing.”
“Isn’t it? You’re getting another box,” she says, her voice rising slightly.
“First it was the glass office at Keane. Now it’s a studio apartment.
You want to go over there, fix yourself up, present a polished version of Ross for coffee dates, and then go home to your safe space when things get messy. ”
I open my mouth to argue, but the words die in my throat. She’s right. I am trying to curate this redemption.
“I don’t want a polished version of you,” she says, her voice softening, losing its edge. “I’m tired of the presentation, Ross. I want to know if you can handle the Tuesday nights when the sink is leaking and I’m cranky and the laundry is piled up. That’s where you failed us. You were never there.”
“I’m trying to protect you,” I whisper. “I’m a mess right now.”
“I know. And if you move to that apartment, you’ll hide that mess until you think you’re perfect again. And we’ll drift apart until we’re polite strangers who used to be married.”
She takes a deep breath, smoothing her coat over her knees. She looks terrified, but resolved.
“Don’t sign the lease,” she says.
My heart hammers against my ribs. “Margot?”
“Move back home,” she says. The words hang in the air, bold and fragile.
“You want me to move back in?”
“I want you to move into the guest room,” she clarifies quickly, setting a hard boundary.
“We aren’t ‘back together.’ Not yet. I’m not ready for you in our bed.
But if we’re going to see if this works, I need to see you.
Every day. I need to see if you can exist in the same space as me without disappearing into your work. ”
She looks at me, her eyes clear and challenging.
“It’s a trial,” she says. “Six months. You fix the things you broke, like the sink, the porch, the trust. If it doesn’t work, you get the apartment. But don’t run away to the Arts District and pretend you’re fixing our marriage from across town.”
The weight of her proposal wraps around us. It’s not an olive branch; it’s a gauntlet. She’s asking me to do the one thing I’ve been terrified to do: be vulnerable in her space, with nowhere to hide.
“The guest room,” I repeat, testing the weight of it.
“The guest room,” she confirms. “And you cook.”
A laugh bubbles up in my chest, breaking the tension. “I can cook.”
“I know you can,” she says, a small smile finally breaking through. “I saw you make that pork chop. Even if it was cold.”
I realize she is offering me the hardest path, but the only one that leads home.
“Okay,” I say, the word feeling like an anchor dropping into the sand. “I’ll tell the landlord I’m out. I’m coming home.”