The conference room had become my second home.
I knew every scratch on the table, every flicker of the overhead lights, every squeak of the chairs when someone shifted their weight. I'd spent more hours in this room over the past week than in my own flat.
I was organizing presentation materials, color-coded folders for each section, backup copies of every document, a master checklist that had grown to three pages, when movement in the hallway caught my attention.
A woman walked toward James's office. Tall. Blonde. Impeccably dressed in cream silk that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
She moved with the confidence of someone who had never been denied anything in her life, each step deliberate and unhurried.
Victoria Langford-Whitmore.
I watched through the glass as she entered James's office without knocking.
She kissed his cheek with practiced elegance—a gesture so polished it looked rehearsed, the kind of affection performed for observers rather than felt.
Then she settled into the chair across from his desk like she owned the space.
Which, in a way, she did. Her father owned everything. The board. The building. Probably half the city, if the rumors were true.
James smiled at her—that careful, controlled smile I'd seen him deploy in countless meetings. Professional. Pleasant. Empty.
They spoke, though I couldn't hear the words through the glass. Victoria gestured with manicured hands. James nodded along, attentive and accommodating.
Then Victoria's gaze drifted toward the conference room.
Our eyes met.
She didn't smile. Didn't frown. Just observed. Cool assessment, like she was cataloguing data—noting my presence, evaluating my threat level, filing me away in whatever mental database she maintained.
Her expression revealed nothing. No jealousy. No curiosity. No acknowledgment that I might matter at all.
Then she looked away, returning her attention to James as if I was beneath notice. As if I was furniture. Part of the background scenery that existed to serve but never to be seen.
The dismissal stung more than hostility would have.
I buried myself in work. Organized files that were already organized. Reviewed documents I'd memorized days ago.
An hour passed before Victoria finally left. She walked past the conference room without a glance, heels clicking against the floor in a rhythm that sounded like victory.
I waited until she'd disappeared into the elevator before allowing myself to breathe.
The storage room offered refuge—a small, windowless space lined with filing cabinets and office supplies.
I needed folders for the financial projections, and I needed a moment away from the glass walls and watching eyes.
I was gathering files when a shadow fell across the doorway.
James stood there, blocking my exit. His tie was loosened, his expression unreadable. He looked tired in a way that went deeper than lack of sleep.
"You saw her," he said.
I kept my voice neutral, refusing to give him anything. "Hard to miss. She's not exactly subtle."
"Victoria came to discuss a charity event her family is hosting. Nothing more. It's the kind of appearance expected of the chairman's son-in-law."
He stepped into the storage room, and the space suddenly felt much smaller. "It's not real, Belle. None of it is. The marriage, the public displays, the happy couple routine—it's all performance. You know that."
"Do I?"
I turned to face him, files clutched against my chest like armor.
"Because from where I stood, it looked pretty convincing. The kiss on the cheek. The comfortable familiarity. The way she sat in your office like she belonged there."
"She's playing a role. We both are. That's what this arrangement requires."
"Does she know that?" The question came out sharper than I intended. "Does Victoria know she's just a stepping stone in your grand plan? That you're planning to discard her the moment you get what you want?"
James's jaw tightened. He ignored the question entirely, which told me everything I needed to know.
"Do you remember that weekend in Brighton?" His voice shifted, softening into something dangerously nostalgic. "The little hotel by the water. The one with the terrible heating and the view of the pier."
I closed my eyes. I didn't want to remember. Didn't want to feel the pull of memories I'd worked so hard to bury.
"You burned the toast," he continued, moving closer. "Completely destroyed it. We had to open all the windows in the middle of February. We were freezing and laughing and we ate it anyway."
My chest tightened. God, I remembered. I remembered everything. The salt air. The scratchy hotel sheets. The way he'd looked at me like I was the only person in the world who mattered.
The way I'd believed, completely and absolutely, that we would have forever.
"James, don't."
"I miss you."
His voice cracked on the words, raw and wounded in a way I hadn't heard since before everything fell apart.
"I miss us. I miss waking up next to you. I miss the way you hum when you're cooking. I miss knowing exactly how you take your tea and what makes you laugh and the sound you make when you're trying not to cry."
"Stop. Please stop."
"I made a mistake. The worst mistake of my life. But that doesn't erase six years, Belle. It doesn't erase what we built together, what we felt, what we were to each other."
He was so close now. Close enough that I could smell his cologne—the same one he'd worn for years, the scent that used to mean safety and home.
"Tell me you don't feel it anymore. Tell me honestly that it's completely gone, and I'll walk away. I'll never mention it again."
I looked up. His face was inches from mine. Blue eyes searching, desperate, achingly familiar.
I could see the flecks of gold near his pupils, the small scar above his eyebrow from a childhood accident, every detail I'd memorized over six years of loving him.
"I can't tell you that," I whispered. "You know I can't."
"Then give us a chance. Give me a chance to make this right."
Six years of muscle memory took over. The distance between us closed—whether he moved or I did, I couldn't say. His lips found mine, and the kiss was familiar and devastating all at once.
His hands cupped my face, gentle, reverent, exactly how he used to hold me when he wanted me to feel cherished. For three seconds, I was lost.
Lost in what we used to be. Lost in the ghost of a love I'd thought would last forever. Lost in the treacherous comfort of something known.
Then reality crashed back.
Victoria's dismissive gaze. The ring on another woman's finger. The calculated proposal in his office—recommend me for CEO, and I'll leave her. The six years I'd given him while he planned his exit strategy.
I shoved him away. Hard.
"This can't happen."
My voice shook with fury—at him, at myself, at the weakness that still lived inside me despite everything. "Whatever you think you're doing, whatever game you're playing, I won't be part of it. Not again. Never again."
"Belle…"
"Don't." I pushed past him, files forgotten, desperate for air. "Don't follow me. Don't explain. Don't pretend this was anything other than manipulation."
I left him standing in the storage room, his expression wounded and confused—or performing wounded and confused, I could no longer tell the difference.
My lips burned with the taste of a mistake I couldn't take back.
And I hated myself for wanting to make it again.