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Chapter 59 – Ethan's POV
"She's Really Gone"
Two weeks.
Fourteen days.
Three hundred and thirty-six hours.
That's how long it had been since I saw Amara walk away from me — that night at the restaurant, her back stiff with anger and disappointment. Since then, silence. No texts. No accidental hallway run-ins. No eye contact in meetings. Nothing.
She'd vanished from my world, even though we worked under the same roof.
Until today.
My calendar buzzed with meetings, numbers, decisions. But all I could think about was that I had to see her. Speak to her. Make it right — or at least try.
Because I couldn't keep pretending the world hadn't shifted that night. That I hadn't done something unforgivable. That I hadn't become exactly the kind of man she feared.
I checked the office floor plan like a man on a mission. And there she was — sitting at her desk near the corner, eyes fixed on her screen, shoulders squared, her posture stiff like a silent warning to anyone who dared come too close.
I walked toward her slowly, heart heavy in my chest. She didn't look up, even when I reached her desk.
"Amara," I said, my voice low.
She didn't glance at me. "I'm working."
"I know. I just—can we talk? Please."
Her hands stilled over her keyboard, but she still didn't look at me. "I'm not interested in personal conversations right now, Mr. Lantel."
The way she said my name — so formal, so distant — it felt like a slap.
I shifted awkwardly. "Look… I haven't seen you since that night. I didn't want to ambush you at work, but I—"
"You are," she cut in, finally turning to face me.
Her eyes met mine. Calm. Clear. And painfully cold.
"You're ambushing me right now, Ethan," she said. "In the one place where I'm supposed to feel safe and focused."
I swallowed the lump rising in my throat. "I'm sorry. I just need five minutes. That's it."
She leaned back in her chair, crossing her arms. "Five minutes won't fix anything."
"I know," I said quickly. "But I still want to say it."
She raised a brow. "Say what?"
"That I'm sorry," I said, stepping a little closer. "For what I did that night. For dragging you out, for humiliating you. For becoming someone I swore I'd never be."
She studied me for a moment — no emotion, no crack in the armor she'd carefully rebuilt. Then she sighed and shook her head slowly.
"Do you even understand what you did?" she asked.
I paused. "I think I do now."
"No, you think you understand," she said, her voice rising ever so slightly. "But if you really did, you wouldn't be standing here expecting anything from me."
I took a step back, the sting of her words landing hard. "I'm not expecting anything. I just… I can't stop thinking about it. About you."
She looked away, eyes flickering toward the windows. "Ethan, you treated me like I was yours to control. You acted like you owned me."
"I didn't mean—"
"I don't care what you meant," she said sharply, eyes back on mine. "You did it. That night, you reminded me of every reason I stopped trusting men in the first place."
I felt that like a punch to the gut. She wasn't just angry — she was hurt. Deeply.
"I thought you were different," she said. "I thought you saw me."
"I do," I said quickly. "Amara, I—"
"You saw me," she repeated, softer now. "And you still hurt me."
Silence fell between us. Heavy. Real.
She stood up, gathering some files from her desk.
"I don't want to have this conversation here," she said, voice cool and professional again. "Or maybe anywhere. Not right now."
"Amara…" I said, one last attempt.
But she held up a hand. "Please respect that."
And with that, she walked away, her heels tapping quietly against the floor — steady, certain, done.
I stood there, numb. Watching her leave again.
Only this time, I didn't chase her. I couldn't.
She was really mad.
Not in the emotional, heat-of-the-moment kind of way.
No — this was the quiet kind of mad.
The kind that doesn't scream or cry.
The kind that walks away.
And it hit me then…
This wouldn't be easy.
Winning her trust back wouldn't happen with one apology, one talk, one regretful look. I had broken something. And I couldn't glue it back together overnight.
I ran a hand through my hair and turned back toward my office. The silence was louder now. Her words echoed in my head.
"You saw me. And you still hurt me."
She was right.
And if I ever wanted to be worthy of her again, I had to become someone better — not just for her, but for myself.
This wasn't about fixing it today.
This was about proving I could change.
Even if it took everything I had.