I arrived at James's office at nine sharp.
I'd dressed impeccably—armor in the form of a pressed blouse and my most professional demeanor. Hair pulled back in its usual neat bun, not a strand out of place.
Makeup flawless, concealing the dark circles that had taken up permanent residence beneath my eyes. Expression carefully neutral, betraying nothing of the storm raging inside me.
I would not give him the satisfaction of seeing me struggle.
James sat behind his desk, the desk that probably came with his new position as the chairman's son-in-law, and slid a paper across the polished surface without a word. A list of tasks. No greeting.
"Coffee first," he said, his eyes still fixed on his computer screen. "Then the calendar needs reorganizing. The Brussels meeting moved to Thursday."
I took the list and left without a word.
The morning crawled by in small humiliations. I fetched his coffee—two sugars, no cream, exactly how I used to make it at home on lazy Sunday mornings. The familiarity of the order cut deeper than any insult could have.
I reorganized his calendar, my eyes catching on appointments with his new wife penciled in between board meetings. Lunch with Victoria. Dinner with the Langfords. A weekend trip to Paris that made my stomach turn.
I sat outside his office answering calls, redirecting complaints, playing gatekeeper for a man who'd thrown me away like yesterday's mail.
Every ring of the phone reminded me of my position. Every polite smile I forced onto my face felt like a betrayal of myself.
By noon, my composure began to crack.
James called me in to discuss a scheduling conflict. I'd made an error, minor, fixable, double-booking a client dinner with an internal review.
An oversight born of exhaustion and emotional turmoil, the kind of mistake I never would have made under normal circumstances.
He pointed it out with thinly veiled condescension, his tone dripping with the same superiority he probably used on junior analysts who disappointed him.
Something in me snapped.
"I don't take criticism from a man who cheated on me for months," I said, my voice steady but sharp, "while I cleaned his apartment and cooked his meals."
James's expression flickered—Loss of his carefully maintained composure. He stood, walked past me close enough that I caught the scent of his cologne, and closed the office door with a soft click.
When he turned back, his eyes held sparks of poorly concealed irritation—but something else too. Something I couldn't quite name.
"Sebastian's not wasting any time, is he?"
His tone was casual but edged with sarcasm.
"No obstacles in front of him now. Not that they ever stopped him. He's been hovering around you for years, Belle. Finding excuses. Manufacturing moments."
I stared at him. Was he—jealous? The audacity of it made my blood boil.
"You have no right," I said, stepping closer despite myself. "You cheated. You married someone else. You destroyed everything we had, and now you're going to stand there and act jealous of Sebastian Cole?"
"I'm not acting."
"There's nothing between me and Sebastian. We work at the same company. We're forced to interact. That's it." I didn't know why I was explaining myself. I owed him nothing. "We hate each other. It's mutual."
James shook his head slowly, a bitter smile tugging at his lips. "You really don't see it, do you? The obvious things right in front of you."
"What the hell is that supposed to mean?"
My voice rose despite my efforts to control it.
"You played me. You used me for six years and then threw me away for a better opportunity. And now you want to act like a saint? Like you're the victim here?"
James stepped closer. Out of habit, stupid, dangerous habit, I didn't step back. I should have. I knew I should.
But my feet stayed planted as he moved into my space, close enough that I could smell his cologne, see the flecks of gold in his blue eyes, feel the warmth radiating from his body.
"Answer me something," he said quietly, almost tender.
"Would you have been able to let me go if I hadn't been an asshole about it? If I'd sat you down, explained everything, asked you to wait—would you have moved on? Or would you have held on, wasting years on a maybe?"
The question caught me off guard. I opened my mouth to argue, but nothing came out.
"Everything I did, I did for a reason,"
James continued, his voice low and deliberate.
"Every move was calculated to get me here. The marriage, the timing, the way I ended things—all of it. I knew Charles trusted your judgment more than anyone's. I just didn't expect there'd be another candidate."
My head spun. "What are you saying?"
"I'm saying I still love you." He held my gaze, unflinching. "And I know you still love me. You can't turn that off in a few weeks, Belle. What we had was real. The only thing that wasn't real was the ending."
I wanted to deny it. Wanted to laugh in his face and tell him he was delusional. But the words stuck in my throat because some treacherous part of me knew he was right.
"All these sacrifices," James said softly, "were to build a future for us. A real future. One where I have the power to give you everything you deserve."
My chest tightened. I should walk away. I should…
"Here's what I'm proposing," he continued. "Recommend me for CEO. Help me get this position. And in return, I'll leave her. We'll have everything we planned—just delayed, that's all. A house. A family. The life you wanted."
For one dangerous moment, I almost believed him.
The words sounded like a fairy tale. The prince returns, the obstacles fall away, and they live happily ever after.
Part of me, the part that still remembered how safe I'd felt in his arms, how certain I'd been that he was my future, wanted desperately to say yes.
But common sense clawed its way through the fog.
James had married the chairman's daughter three weeks ago. An elaborate wedding. Hundreds of guests. Public vows. And now he stood here offering to throw it all away—for me? For a promotion?
"Are you serious?" I asked.
"Completely." His voice didn't waver. "The marriage was strategic. I don't love her. I never did. You were always the one I wanted, Belle. You just couldn't advance my career. Now you can."
The words landed like a slap.
You just couldn't advance my career. Now you can.
I stared at him—this man I'd shared a bed with for six years, cooked for, cleaned for, built dreams around, waited for to propose.
And I saw him clearly for the first time. Not the charming boyfriend. Not the man I'd thought would propose. Just a schemer in an expensive suit, reshuffling people like cards in a deck.
I didn't answer. I couldn't.
I turned and walked out of his office, past the assistant's desk, past the curious glances of coworkers, through the hallway until I found the stairwell. I sat on the cold concrete steps and pressed my hands against my face.
The man I'd loved for six years saw me as a transaction.
I had power over him now. For the first time in our relationship, he needed something from me. The realization didn't feel like victory. It felt like confirmation that I'd never known him at all.
But deep in the mess of anger and hurt, a small voice whispered: What if he meant it? What if, underneath all the calculation, there's something real?
I didn't know. I didn't trust myself to know anymore.
I sat in the stairwell until my breathing steadied, then stood and smoothed my skirt. There was still half a day of work ahead, and Belle Ashworth doesn't hide in stairwells.
But the question followed me back to my desk, unanswered and unshakable: should I give him a second chance?