Chapter 11
ROMEE
Igaze at him, this massive, infuriating wall of muscle and terrible decision-making skills, and wait for the apology he supposedly came here to deliver.
My chest aches with the effort it takes to keep my expression neutral, professional, like I'm not currently wearing his shirt beneath my blazer, like I can't still feel the ghost of his hands on my skin from last night.
"I was wrong," Thrall says, and the words sound like they're being physically pulled out of him, rough and unpracticed.
"I thought I was helping. I thought buying your agency would solve the problem, that it would give you the freedom and resources you deserved without having to deal with that parasite stealing your work. "
He pauses, his massive jaw working as he searches for the right words. It's the first time I've ever seen him look uncertain about anything, and the sight makes something twist painfully .
"But I didn't ask you," he continues, his voice dropping lower, rougher.
"I didn't consider that you might want to build your own success on your own terms, without my interference or my money or my name attached to it.
I treated you like a problem to be solved instead of a partner to consult.
And that was arrogant and controlling and exactly the kind of high-handed bullshit you've been fighting against your entire career. "
The admission hangs in the air between us, honest and raw in a way I didn't expect from someone who usually treats vulnerability like a tactical weakness.
Part of me wants to throw the door open wider, to let him in and let this conversation dissolve into something softer, something that doesn't hurt so much.
But the larger part of me, the part that's been clawing her way up from nothing for years, the part that's tired of being underestimated and talked over and treated like a possession instead of a person, holds firm.
"You're right," I say, my voice steady even though my heart is hammering against my ribs. "You didn't ask. You made a massive business decision that directly affected my career and my future without even consulting me. And the worst part is, you probably thought you were being romantic."
Something flashes across his face, guilt mixed with frustrated acknowledgment.
"I don't need you to save me, Thrall," I continue, and my voice cracks slightly on his name despite my best efforts.
"I needed you to respect me enough to let me fight my own battles.
To trust that I could handle my piece-of-shit boss without you swooping in like some kind of corporate warlord and solving everything with money and intimidation. "
"I know," he says quietly, and the defeat in his tone makes my chest constrict. "I know that now. And I'm sorry, Romee. Genuinely, deeply sorry for overstepping and for treating your autonomy like it was negotiable."
I blink hard against the sudden burning in my eyes, refusing to let fresh tears fall. This is what I needed to hear, the apology I deserved, delivered with the kind of honesty that makes my defenses crack and splinter.
But it doesn't change the fundamental problem.
"I can't do this right now," I whisper, my voice breaking despite my best efforts to keep it together. "I can't be with someone who thinks my problems are his to fix, who doesn't understand that I need to stand on my own two feet before I can stand beside anyone else."
Thrall nods slowly, his expression carefully neutral in a way that tells me he's working just as hard as I am to maintain composure. He reaches into his pocket and pulls out a simple black business card, holding it out to me between two massive fingers.
"When you're ready," he says, his voice low and steady, "when you've built what you need to build and proven whatever you need to prove—to yourself, not to me or anyone else—call me. Not as your employer, not as your savior, but as someone who wants to be your equal."
I take the card with trembling fingers, the matte black surface cool against my palm. There's nothing printed on it except a single phone number in silver embossed text.
"And if you never call, I'll understand. But I need you to know that what happened between us was real, Romee. The most real thing I've experienced in years. And I'm not going to cheapen it by pretending otherwise or trying to buy my way back into your good graces."
Then he steps back, creating physical distance between us that feels like a canyon opening in the floorboards. He doesn't try to touch me, doesn't try to kiss me goodbye or pull me into some grand romantic gesture that would only complicate things further.
He just nods once, a gesture of respect and acknowledgment, and walks away.
I watch him go, this massive, complicated man who rewired something fundamental inside me in the span of a few days, and I let the tears finally fall.
The charter bus feels cavernous and empty without the rowdy Horde Tech executives filling every seat. I sit near the back, my suitcase stowed overhead, and watch the Whispering Pines Wellness Retreat disappear through the rear window as we pull away.
My phone buzzes incessantly with messages from the event planning agency—former agency, I correct myself bitterly, but I ignore them all.
There's nothing left to say to those people, no final projects to wrap up or loose ends to tie.
Thrall's acquisition was swift and absolute, and according to the terse email I received this morning from the new interim director, my severance package and final paycheck have already been processed and deposited.
I should feel relieved. Grateful, even, that I'm walking away with a financial cushion instead of being unceremoniously fired and left scrambling.
Instead, I just feel hollow.
The city skyline comes into view as we cross the bridge back into downtown, the familiar glass and steel landscape that's been home for the past five years.
My apartment is small and overpriced, tucked into a building with temperamental heating and neighbors who blast music at ungodly hours, but it's mine.
Every piece of furniture, every carefully budgeted decoration, every scratch in the hardwood floor represents something I earned and built myself.
And that matters more than I realized until this moment.
I drag my suitcase up three flights of stairs—the elevator is broken again—and let myself into the apartment, dropping my bags just inside the door. The space feels smaller than I remember, cramped and suffocating after days spent in the sprawling luxury of the mountain retreat.
My laptop sits on the tiny kitchen table where I left it, surrounded by scattered notes and printed itineraries from the Horde Tech planning process. I sink into the chair and open a fresh document, staring at the blank white screen.
Romee Lin Events, I type slowly, my fingers hovering over the keyboard as if the act of committing these words to the screen might somehow make them real in a way that frightens me more than I'm willing to admit.
I backspace, delete, type it again. The cursor blinks at me with what feels like judgment.
Testing how it looks. How it feels to see my name standing alone on the digital page, completely unmoored from the corporate infrastructure that's propped me up for the past five years. No Pinnacle Events. No Executive Planning Division. Just me, my name, my reputation, my risk.
Without someone else's company behind it, no safety net, no corporate lawyers ready to shield me from failure, no venerable institution to fall back on when things inevitably go sideways.
It looks terrifying in a way that makes my stomach clench. The kind of terrifying that comes with zero margin for error, with every misstep being entirely, unequivocally my fault.
It looks impossible when I think about the overhead, the competition, the dozen other event planners with more experience and better networks already carving up the market.
It looks exactly right, though. And that's the part that truly frightens me—because wanting something this badly means I've already given it the power to destroy me.
The first week is a blur of paperwork, legal consultations, and caffeine-fueled late nights. I drain my savings account to cover the LLC filing fees and the bare-bones website hosting, and I set up a business email address that feels both professional and completely surreal.
My phone stays mercifully silent. No calls from Thrall, no messages, no attempts to insert himself into my process or offer unsolicited advice.
The black business card sits on my nightstand, a constant reminder of what I walked away from and what might be waiting on the other side of this exhausting gauntlet I've built for myself.
I don't let myself think about him during the day. I can't afford the distraction, can't afford to let my focus splinter when I'm barely holding this fragile new venture together with determination and spite.
But at night, alone in my too-small bed, I let myself remember his hands, the rumble of his voice, the way he looked at me like I was the only thing in the room that mattered.
The second week is worse. I send out inquiry emails to every corporate contact I've built over the years, carefully worded pitches that highlight my experience without directly badmouthing my former agency.
Most go unanswered. A few respond with polite rejections, citing budget constraints or existing vendor relationships.
I start to panic around day ten, when my carefully calculated financial runway starts looking less like a safety net and more like a ticking time bomb.
I have maybe six weeks before I'm forced to go crawling back into traditional employment, back to working under someone else's thumb and swallowing my pride just to make rent.
The thought makes me physically nauseous.
I double down, working eighteen-hour days, cold-calling potential clients, reaching out to old colleagues who might be willing to throw some freelance work my way.
I live on instant ramen and cheap coffee, my hair perpetually pulled into a messy bun, my tailored blazers abandoned in favor of worn sweatshirts and leggings.
I look like hell. I feel like hell.
But I'm doing this myself, on my own terms, and that has to count for something.
Three weeks in, I'm sitting at my kitchen table at two in the morning, my laptop screen blurring in front of my exhausted eyes as I revise my portfolio for the hundredth time. The apartment is silent except for the hum of the refrigerator and the occasional siren wailing past on the street below.
My phone buzzes, and I almost ignore it, assuming it's another spam call or a late-night text from a friend checking in on my deteriorating mental state.
But something makes me look.
Email notification. New inquiry through my website contact form.
My heart kicks against my ribs as I click over to my inbox, refreshing the page twice to make sure I'm not hallucinating from sleep deprivation.
From: [email protected]
Subject: Corporate Event Inquiry - Horde Tech Software
I observe the sender line, my breath catching in my throat. For a long moment, I can't move, can't think, can't do anything except reread those words over and over until they burn themselves into my retinas.
My finger hovers over the delete button.
This is what I was afraid of, exactly the kind of interference I specifically told him I didn't want.
He promised to respect my boundaries, to let me build this on my own, and here he is barely three weeks later trying to hand me a contract on a silver platter.
I should delete it. I should respond with a professional but firm email declining the opportunity and reiterating my need for independence.
Instead, I open the message.
Ms. Lin,
Horde Tech Software is seeking an experienced event planner for our annual shareholder gala, scheduled for six weeks from today. The event will host approximately 300 attendees, including investors, board members, and executive leadership from multiple tech sector companies.
We require a planner capable of managing high-profile clients, coordinating complex logistics, and maintaining absolute professionalism under pressure. Your name was recommended by our Head of HR, who was impressed by your organizational skills during our recent corporate retreat.
Please submit a formal proposal outlining your approach, estimated budget, and relevant experience by end of business Friday.
This is a blind RFP process. Three event planning firms have been invited to submit proposals, and the contract will be awarded based solely on merit and proposed execution plan.
Regards,
Joffrey Kranik
Chief Operating Officer
Horde Tech Software
I read it twice, then a third time, parsing every word for hidden meaning or special treatment.
It's completely professional. Completely standard. There's no mention of Thrall, no personal notes or inside references to what happened between us. Just a straightforward RFP from a company I already have direct experience with, sent by someone who isn't the CEO himself.
And it's a blind process. Three firms competing on equal ground.
This isn't a handout. This is an opportunity to prove myself against actual competition, to win a contract based on my skills and proposal rather than any personal connection or corporate favor.
My hands shake slightly as I create a new folder on my desktop and title it Horde Tech Shareholder Gala.
I pull up my notes from the wellness retreat, reviewing every detail I learned about the company culture, the executive team dynamics, the specific preferences and expectations of their leadership.
I know this client. I know exactly what they need, what will impress them, what will make their event memorable and successful.
And I'm going to build them a proposal that's so thorough, so perfectly executed, that they have no choice but to choose me.
Not because of Thrall. Not because of what happened between us.
Because I'm the best person for the job.
I pour myself another cup of terrible instant coffee, crack my knuckles, and get to work.