[Serena’s POV]
* Present *
The conference room feels like a gladiatorial arena. Sixteen people around the table, but I only see him.
Caspian's presenting the Q3 projections, his voice steady and professional, but I catch the moment his eyes flick to me. Just a second. Less than a second. Enough to make my pulse stutter in a way that feels like betrayal.
I force my attention to the spreadsheet in front of me. Find the error in his calculation I knew would be there—he always forgets to account for currency fluctuation in international acquisitions—and wait.
"The European division numbers look optimistic," I say when he pauses. My voice is ice. Professional ice. "Perhaps unrealistically so, given the current exchange rates."
I watch his jaw tighten. "The projections account for—"
"They don't." I pull up my own analysis, display it on the screen. "You're working with September rates. We're in October. That's a 3.2% variance that'll cost us approximately $4.7 million."
The room goes silent. Someone coughs.
Caspian's eyes lock on mine, and I see it—the flash of something that isn't anger. Something worse. Something that looks like hurt wrapped in frustration wrapped in the same exhaustion I feel in my bones.
"You're right," he says finally. "I'll adjust the models."
It should feel like victory. It feels like ash.
This is how we exist now. Every meeting a battlefield. Every interaction a careful dance of professional courtesy masking the fact that we can barely stand to be in the same room. That being in the same room makes me want to scream. Or cry. Or both.
The meeting ends. I gather my materials with methodical precision, planning my escape route. If I'm fast enough, I can make it to the elevator before—
"Serena." His voice behind me. Close. Too close. "Can we talk? Five minutes."
"I have another meeting."
"No, you don't. I have your calendar."
The presumption of it ignites something in my chest. "That's not creepy at all."
"I'm your boss. I have everyone's calendar."
"Then as my boss, you should know I'm very busy." I move past him, but his hand—not touching, just there in my peripheral vision—stops me.
"Please."
The word is so quiet I almost miss it. So raw it does something dangerous to my resolve.
"Five minutes," he repeats. "My office. I'll leave the door open if it makes you feel safer."
Safer. As if safety is the issue. As if I'm afraid of him rather than what I might do, what I might say, what I might feel if I let this conversation happen.
But I'm so tired of running. Tired of deflecting. Tired of the weight of him everywhere—in every meeting, every email, every moment I'm at work knowing he's three floors up, thinking about our daughter.
"Fine. Five minutes."
* * *
His office overlooks Manhattan. Floor-to-ceiling windows, the city sprawling below like something we're supposed to have conquered by now. The door stays open, just as he promised. I don't sit.
He doesn't either. Just stands there, backlit by failing sunlight, and I hate that he looks good. Hate that my body recognizes him in ways my mind refuses to acknowledge.
“I know I’ve said it already, but I’ll take it as it didn’t register,” biting, sarcastic, as always. Asshole. “So I’ll repeat it. The only thing I want is to get to know her.”
"Get to know her," I repeat. The words feel foreign. Dangerous. "That's what you want? To know her?"
"Yes." He takes a step closer, stops when he sees me tense. "That's all. I'm not trying to take her from you. I'm not trying to disrupt your life or prove I have more money or power or—" He stops. Breathes. "I just want to know my daughter."
The simplicity of it should disarm me. Instead, it ignites something vicious and old. Something that's been waiting seven years to detonate.
"No."
"Serena—"
"You lost the right to 'know her' when you left that hotel room without a word." My voice is cold. Precise. Each word a blade I've been sharpening since the moment I found out he was Aria's father. "When you walked out before I woke up like I was something you needed to escape."
His face goes pale, but I'm not done. Not even close.
"You lost the right when you let people humiliate me and did nothing. When you sat there in that auditorium and watched my future burn because warning me would have been inconvenient. Because it might have made your friends uncomfortable."
"That was ten years ago—"
"It was who you are." The words crack like a whip. "Someone who chooses convenience over courage. Someone who takes what he wants and leaves before the consequences arrive. You don't get to decide you're ready now just because it's convenient. Just because you've suddenly decided being a father fits into your fucking life plan."
I watch something in his face crack. Actually crack. Like I've reached inside and broken something essential.
"I know I don't deserve—" His voice is rough. Broken. "I know I fucked up. Both times. All the times. But she's my daughter, Serena. I can't—" He stops. Breathes like it hurts. "I can't just pretend she doesn't exist because I was a coward seven years ago."
"Ten years ago too," I remind him. Cruel. Exact. "Don't forget that one."
The words land like physical blows. I see him absorb each one. See the way his hands curl into fists at his sides, not in anger but in something worse. Something that looks like a man trying to hold himself together.
"You're right." His voice is barely above a whisper. "About all of it. I was a coward then. I was selfish and cruel and I let you down in every way that mattered."
He meets my eyes, and the naked pain in his expression does something terrible to my chest.
"But I'm here now. I'm trying. And I know—I know—that doesn't erase anything. Doesn't fix what I broke. But I'm asking anyway. Not because I have a right to. Because she deserves to have a father who wants to know her. Who'll show up. Who won't run."
The conviction in his voice makes my throat tight. Makes me want to believe him even as every instinct screams that believing him is how I get destroyed again.
"How do I know you won't run?" The question comes out smaller than I intended. Vulnerable in a way I hate. "How do I know that the first time it gets hard, the first time she's inconvenient or complicated or needs more than you're ready to give, you won't disappear?"
"You don't." The honesty of it is almost worse than a lie would be. "I can't prove it with words. I can only prove it by staying. By showing up. Every day. Even when it's hard. Especially when it's hard."
We stand in silence. The city glitters below us, indifferent to the way my world is rearranging itself. To the way I can feel my carefully constructed walls starting to fracture.
"I need time," I hear myself say. "To think. To figure out what this looks like."
"Okay." He doesn't move. Doesn't push. "Whatever you need."
I turn to leave, but his voice stops me at the door.
"Serena."
I don't turn around. Can't.
"I know I don't deserve forgiveness. From you or from her. But I'm going to spend the rest of my life trying to earn it anyway."
The promise in his words wraps around my ribs, makes breathing difficult.
I walk out without responding. Without looking back. Because looking back feels like falling, and I've fallen for Caspian Rothwell enough times to know exactly how much it costs.
But as the elevator descends, as Manhattan blurs through tears I refuse to acknowledge, I feel something shift.
Not forgiveness. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
But something close to the possibility of it.
And that terrifies me more than anything else could.