27. Anouk
Anouk
Isee the meeting invite, and the petty bitch inside me wants to decline. They didn’t want me for the board meeting, so why do they want me for an internal project meeting, huh?
“Don’t do it,” Dot warns as she leans against the doorway to my cubicle.
I turn to look at her and give her the best puppy dog face I can conjure up. “Do what?”
She gives me a dry look, barely hiding her irritation. “Decline the invitation or not show up after accepting the invite.”
“Why not?” I’m pouting, which is unusual, but I’m having a week, so can anyone really blame me?
Dot chuckles. “Luther wants to talk to the team, regroup after the…well, disastrous board meeting.”
The petty bitch in me did a happy dance when Pallavi told me all about how the presentation went south because Erin just couldn’t handle it.
Sweet, sweet revenge.
That’s my model and data, bitch, and you’re just not smart enough to talk about it. You’re a project manager, so stick to that, alright?
“He’s probably just going to make excuses, blah, blah,” I say, but I’m not sure.
The man who came to my place last night, contrite as hell, I don’t think he’s going to just sweep everything under the rug.
But trust for me is on low supply.
“Come on, aren’t you curious?” Dot asks, mischief in her eyes.
I think about it for a moment. “Yeah, I am,” I confess.
So, I walk with Dot and Pallavi to the meeting room—the same one where we met the first day Luther Grant the Great took over as CEO of HelixSphere and gave me a hard time. I wonder what this meeting room has in store for us today.
I know, a part of me is playing the cocky bitch to protect myself.
Anger is an armor, while grief is an invitation to more agony.
I want to stay angry, so I don’t have to feel the agony of ending my relationship with Luther, of missing him.
It’s just been a couple of days, but I have phantom pains, like I lost a limb.
For three months, we spent almost all of our free time together, and the emptiness of not having him is vast.
The old gang is all there in the conference room.
Erin. Pallavi. Dot. Benjamin. Vijay. And last but definitely not least, Luther.
Vijay sits next to me and checks in. “You okay?”
“Why wouldn’t I be?” I say blithely. Like hell I’m going to show any of these people that I’m hurting. I’ve been wounded worse by people whom I trusted a hell of a lot more than I did Luther.
Speaking of heartbreak, the cause of mine stands at the head of the table. There’s no open laptop. No slides queued. The sleeves of his dress shirt are rolled up, and his jeans look like they’ve been through more than a few washes.
The Rolex is still shiny, I note.
He nods at me. I return the gesture. I am pretending to be nonchalant, but inside, just seeing him has butterflies fluttering in my belly.
The apology yesterday did something—I can’t deny that. I’m angrier than I am hurt right now, even though before he came by, I was drowning in pain. But grief isn’t orderly. You don’t progress linearly, you ricochet.
Luther waits until everyone is settled, then clears his throat.
“Thank you all for coming.”
He speaks with the same confidence he always has, but there’s more humility in his tone today.
Interesting.
“I called this meeting because I owe all of you an apology. And I owe it publicly.”
I straighten.
What the hell is he thinking of doing? By God, if he humiliates me again, stutter or not, I’m going to rip him a new one.
“The presentation yesterday didn’t fail because of bad data,” he says. “It didn’t fail because of complexity or timing. It failed because of my leadership.”
Say what?
I’m not the only one who is surprised. You can, literally, hear a pin drop because even the air conditioning seems to have gone silent at his words. Corporate temperature systems, like employees, are not used to hearing senior executives apologize, especially in public.
“I made a decision rooted in fear.” Luther’s eyes flick to me, holding my gaze. “Fear of perception. Fear of risk. Fear of how things would look instead of what was true.”
I look away because if I don’t, I’ll let him back in, I’ll believe him, and that is dangerous for my well-being.
But then he continues in that firm voice of his, and I can’t help but let at least his words in. “I sidelined the person who built the model. I allowed someone else to present work they didn’t own. And I treated a disability as a liability instead of part of a whole, capable professional.”
Erin gasps loudly and stands as if on automatic pilot. Her hands grip the table tightly, like she’s stopping herself from saying something, throwing something at Luther to shut him up.
Luther ignores her. “That was wrong of me. It wasn’t a misstep, or a business decision, or even a leadership judgment—it was plainly wrong.”
“Sit down, Erin,” Dot hisses.
Erin does as she’s ordered, but her outrage is etched on her face for all to see.
If Luther notices the byplay, one couldn’t tell because he’s focused on me. His demeanor says that I am the wronged party, and even though this apology is for the whole team, it’s primarily for me.
“I want to be clear,” Luther goes on. “This wasn’t about performance. Or competence. Or readiness. This was about me choosing comfort over courage. And that choice hurt this team—and most of all, Anouk.”
I look at him then. I can’t look away. I want to, but I can’t.
No one has ever apologized to me like this for hurting me.
No one has ever done it so overtly, with so much heart and sincerity.
“Anouk, I am so sorry for my reprehensible behavior.”
His words are dramatic, but his delivery is not. This is not theater. This is authentic.
His expression softens, and I see regret, stark, in his eyes. “I can’t undo what I did. But I am taking responsibility for it.”
I nod. I accept his apology. I don’t know if I can ever forgive him or even forget this, but I believe he’s truly repentant, and I respect that.
He turns to the rest of the team. “Effective immediately, any presentation of the data on this project will be led by Anouk…if she chooses.”
All eyes fall on me.
I don’t like being the center of attention, but this time it feels different, not like they’re criticizing me or seeing fault, but are looking at me with respect and expectation.
Well, everyone except that bitch, Erin. She seems angry enough to strangle me.
Score!
“Anouk”—Luther says my name as a plea—“I understand that apologies don’t repair harm on their own, but they do if they’re combined with changed behavior, consistently, and over time. I’m committed to that—whether or not I’m forgiven.”
I don’t know what I expected—relief, vindication, closure—but what I feel instead is more complicated.
I know people can apologize, beautifully and insincerely, when it suits them.
I’ve seen remorse bloom the moment a consequence appears.
Erin’s failure at the board meeting hovers at the edges of my thoughts, unwanted but persistent.
Is all this because he lost face? Or because he found his spine?
I can’t tell yet.
“Luther, thank you,” Dot is the first to speak. “Your best qualities have always been your curiosity and humility—which I worried you’d lost in your pursuit of perceived perfection. I’m glad to see you’re still willing to learn, still willing to look at your mistakes with clear eyes.”
Luther’s expression softens, almost brightens.
Dot’s approval matters to him. I know he respects her deeply.
I want to say something, to meet Dot’s grace with my own.
But the words are tangled inside me. There’s too much emotion to sort through, too much uncertainty about what I feel and what I’m ready to say.
And underneath it all is the familiar fear—that I’ll stutter, that I won’t be able to articulate myself the way I want to.
What Luther did didn’t just hurt my feelings—it fractured my confidence. Being told that no matter how prepared I am, I won’t be board-facing—that my work isn’t enough—left a mark that an apology alone can’t erase.
Rebuilding my faith in myself will take time, and it’s work I have to do on my own. Learning to be comfortable with my stutter again is part of that process.
His apology matters, but healing isn’t something he can do for me.
“So, what are the next steps?” Vijay brings us back to business.
Luther doesn’t look at me again and goes through how we move forward.
There will be another meeting, and he will book that after talking to me, as I will be the only presenter.
Right! No. That’s not happening. No way.
When it’s over, people filter out quietly.
I stay seated.
So does he.
When the last person has left, and the glass door is closed, he says, “You don’t have to say anything.”
Good! Because I don’t know if I can say anything.
“I wanted the words on record. For you. And for them.” There’s a tremor in his voice.
Trust doesn’t rebuild itself because someone did the right thing once, but reparations matter.
“I’m…g-grateful,” I say carefully. “B-but I’m still a-afraid.”
“That makes sense.” There’s a hollow ache in his eyes when he looks at me. “Anouk, what about us? I…I don’t…I can’t lose you.”
I take a long, assessing look at him to see his truth, to give myself time to gather my thoughts.
“I…I…d-don’t know,” I say lamely.
“Yesterday, my mother said that trust is easy the first time because there’s no baggage. I destroyed your faith in me, and this second time, earning your trust will be harder. But I will earn it, Anouk. Just…don’t give up on me.”
His honesty—unguarded, un-strategic—settles deep in my chest.
Wait! His mother? He told his mother about me?
Since I have no idea how to feel about that, I decide being professional is the way to go.
“Can…can I p-present at the end of the week?” That gives me two days to prepare.
He looks so happy that it makes me feel guilty. “You’ll do it?”
I nod. “The work deserves it.” As do I!