Page 51 of The Love Clause

And I hate him for it. Hate that he could make me feel so seen, so valued, and then discard me based on a misunderstanding he never gave me the chance to explain. Hate that he could reduce what we shared to a business transaction. Hate that even now, knowing how cruelly he dismissed me, I still miss him with an intensity that physically hurts.

I bury my face in the shirt, allowing myself the weakness of inhaling his scent one more time. Tomorrow, I'll throw it away. Tomorrow, I'll call Blake and accept his dinner invitation.Tomorrow, I'll go back to my pristine studio and actually paint something, even if it's just an angry abstract of blue eyes and cold words.

Tomorrow, I'll start the process of getting over Elliot Carrington.

But tonight, just for these quiet hours in the darkness, I'll admit the truth: what we had was real. No matter what he said in that office, no matter how convincingly he lied, what we shared was genuine. I felt it. And somewhere beneath all that carefully constructed armor, he felt it too.

He just wasn’t brave enough to admit it.

TWENTY

Elliot

The Harrison contractsits open on my desk, a testament to professional success that should give me satisfaction. The firm's managing partner stopped by this morning to personally congratulate me, strongly hinting that partnership discussions would begin earlier than expected. Everything I've worked toward for the past five years, presented to me like a gift. Yet I've been staring at the same paragraph for twenty minutes, unable to focus on anything beyond the echoing emptiness that's consumed me since Josie walked out of my office. Three weeks of hollow victories and sleepless nights, of catching myself reaching for her in empty sheets, of composing texts I never send and rehearsing apologies I'm too cowardly to deliver.

My phone buzzes with a text from Harrison himself, inviting me to his club for a celebratory drink. I should accept. Should continue cultivating this relationship that's so valuable to the firm. Instead, I set the phone aside, unable to summon evenperformative enthusiasm for networking opportunities I once would have prioritized above eating or sleeping.

A knock on my door interrupts this unproductive spiral. Claire enters without waiting for permission, a deviation from protocol that immediately puts me on alert.

"Your four o'clock canceled," she announces, setting a stack of documents on my desk with more force than necessary. "And you have these contracts to review by tomorrow morning."

"Thank you," I reply automatically, not really seeing the papers in front of me. "Is there anything else?"

Instead of leaving, she sits in one of the client chairs across from my desk, crossing her legs and regarding me with an expression I can't quite interpret.

"Yes, actually. You look terrible."

The blunt assessment startles me into actually focusing on her. "Excuse me?"

"You heard me." She gestures toward me with a flick of her wrist. "You haven't changed your tie in three days. You've been wearing the same expression as my nephew when his dog died. You've been snapping at associates who don't deserve it, canceling meetings without explanation, and staring into space instead of working."

"I appreciate your concern," I say stiffly, "but my personal state is not relevant to?—"

"It is when it affects your work," she interrupts, another unprecedented breach of our professional dynamic. "And when it makes my job harder because I have to manage your deteriorating mood on top of your schedule."

"I apologize if my behavior has been…difficult." The admission comes reluctantly. "I'll make the necessary adjustments."

Claire sighs, some of her professional facade slipping to reveal genuine concern. "Elliot, I've worked for you for fouryears. In that time, I've seen you handle impossible deadlines, difficult clients, and your father's quarterly performance reviews without breaking a sweat. The only thing that's ever rattled you was Josie Palmer."

The sound of her name is like a physical blow. "Ms. Palmer is no longer relevant to?—"

"Oh, stop it." Claire leans forward, her expression suddenly fierce. "She's completely relevant. You've been miserable since she left your apartment. Even more miserable since she came to the office. And you're going to continue being miserable until you fix whatever catastrophic misunderstanding happened between you."

"There was no misunderstanding." The lie tastes bitter. "We had an arrangement. It concluded. End of story."

"Right. And that's why you check your phone fifty times a day, why you've been sleeping in your office three nights a week, why you keep that little dog toy she forgot in your desk drawer."

My head snaps up. "How did you?—"

"I'm your assistant. I know everything." She stands, smoothing her skirt with practiced efficiency. "What I don't know is why you're choosing to be miserable when the solution is obvious."

"And what solution would that be?" I ask, unable to keep the edge from my voice.

"Apologize." She says it like it's the simplest thing in the world. "Admit you were wrong. Tell her how you feel instead of hiding behind work and pretending you're fine."

"It's not that simple."

"It never is," she concedes. "But ask yourself this: what's worse—risking rejection by being honest, or spending the rest of your life wondering what might have happened if you hadn't been too proud to try?"

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