Bea’s POV
The air in the HR office was dry and suffocating, like even the walls were bracing for impact. I sat across from Julian in the stiff leather chair, watching the HR director pace in tight, angry circles, her heels ticking like a metronome of doom. “This isn’t high school,” she snapped, eyes darting between us like she couldn’t believe she had to explain workplace professionalism to two grown adults. “The gala was a formal event, not your personal soap opera.” I stayed quiet, arms crossed, legs tightly wound beneath the table. Julian sat stone-faced beside me, his suit flawless, his expression unreadable as ever. “The heart wants what it wants,” he said flatly, and I could’ve strangled him with the lanyard hanging off her ID badge. I turned to him, glaring. “Do you even hear yourself right now? This isn’t about your heart. It’s about how you treat people like props in your perfect little empire.”
The HR woman tried to rein it in, but the damage had already been done. “Look, the optics are a nightmare. This was never disclosed, which violates multiple clauses in your contract, Beatriz, not to mention opens the company to scrutiny about favoritism and conflict of interest.” Julian didn’t flinch. “If you’re recommending termination, I’ll handle it.” My jaw clenched. “Really?” I snapped. “After everything, you’d fire me just like that?” He turned slowly. “I didn’t say I would. I said I’d handle it.” “Which, in your world, means sweeping me under the rug again,” I muttered. The HR woman rubbed her temples and dismissed us with a warning and a handful of documents we both ignored. I stormed out without looking back, but every click of my heels down that hallway felt like a countdown ticking toward something I couldn’t undo.
I didn’t go back to my desk. I went straight to his office, still holding the file folder he hadn’t even bothered to glance at. The door was open, so I walked in without knocking, heart racing, fists clenched. “You don’t get to play the martyr,” I said before he even looked up. “Not when you’re the one dragging me into this mess.” He raised an eyebrow, calm like always. “You kissed me back, Bea. In front of the whole room.” “Don’t,” I snapped. “Don’t act like I had a choice in any of this. You bulldozed your way into my night, into my job, into my head—and now I’m the one sitting in HR like I started a scandal.” He stood slowly, his body language cool but tense. “You think this is easy for me? I’ve never had to answer for anyone before. That night was me choosing you.”
I laughed bitterly. “Choosing me? You didn’t choose me. You claimed me. You treated me like a trophy you forgot to dust off until someone else touched it.” He opened his mouth, but I kept going. “You make everything about control. Your office. Your company. Me. It’s exhausting, Julian. I never know where I stand with you—if I’m your mistake or your possession.” His jaw tightened, that same flicker of restraint cracking through. “I don’t know what you want me to say.” “I want you to say something that sounds like the truth,” I said. “Not strategy.” He looked down, then back at me with something that might have been regret—or maybe it was just pride softening under pressure. “I don't like you,” he said.
It hit me like a slap. I stared at him for a second, waiting for the rest of the sentence, for some version of vulnerability, but it never came. “You’re exhausting,” I said again, quieter this time. “You love the idea of me until it gets hard. Then you fold into silence and expect me to read your mind.” He stepped forward. “I’m trying, Bea.” “No,” I said, backing away. “You’re reacting. There’s a difference.” My voice broke slightly, and I hated that he noticed. “This isn’t a game I win by staying. This is my life. My heart. And you keep treating it like collateral.” For a moment, the space between us filled with things unsaid, things we’d both swallowed since Paris. And still, none of them were enough.
I walked to the table and grabbed my bag, my hand brushing against the envelope I’d tucked there the night before. I’d printed it on a whim. Never thought I’d actually hand it over. But standing there, watching him watch me with that same mix of arrogance and uncertainty, I realized I couldn’t wait for him to change. I had to move. Even if it hurt. I took the letter out slowly, walked to his desk, and dropped it hard enough to make him blink. “What’s this?” he asked, already knowing. I met his eyes, steady now. “My resignation.”
He looked down at the envelope, then back at me. “Bea—” “Don’t,” I said. “Don’t try to talk me down or fix it with a raise. I’m not something you manage.” He stepped around the desk, but I didn’t let him get close. “I gave you chances, Julian. More than I should have. But I’m not your fixer. I’m not your secret. And I’m not your damage control.” His eyes darkened. “That’s not how I see you.” “Then maybe,” I whispered, voice trembling, “you should’ve said that sooner.”
I turned to leave, my spine straight even as my heart cracked in quiet, private ways. At the door, I looked back once—not for him, but for me. To see the man who couldn’t speak until I was already gone.
And then I slammed the letter on his desk. “I’m done being your mistake.”