Page 39 of Letting Go

Thank you so much for the opportunity. Unfortunately, due to an urgent family responsibility, I won’t be able to accept the position at this time. Wishing you and the team continued success.

Warmly,

Leana Scott

Simple. Direct. Devastating.

I hover for a second. Then hit send.

And just like that, I’ve turned down my dream job in a guest room I don’t even like, in a house I can’t stand, for a man I want to destroy.

Honestly, I deserve a dog just for that.

The call comes barely five seconds after I hit send.

Unknown number.

I stare at it for a second because I have a feeling I know who’s on the other side of this call.

I answer, because I hate myself just enough. “Hello?”

“Leana Scott?”

His voice is... rich. Unfairly attractive. Low and smooth with just a hint of teasing, like expensive whiskey in a crystal glass I would one hundred percent spill down my shirt.

“Yes?” I say, suddenly very aware that I’m not wearing a bra and am holding my wine like its holy water.

“This is Caden Marx.”

And just like that, my organs attempt a synchronized swan dive out of my body.

He doesn’t even saytheCaden Marx, like the new CEO of Marx Corp, the guy I said ‘looked like a kid’, the man I almost worked for, before I decided, in a full mental spiral, to bail on the job and lean all the way into petty divorce warfare.

“I- uh.” My brain bluescreens. “Hi.”

I just saw your email,” he says, voice light, laced with curiosity. “So, tell me, why the sudden no?”

Of course. Of course, he’s charminganddirect.

I blink at the wall like it might help me form a coherent thought.

“I’m sorry,” I say, which is ridiculous because I’m not. I’m exhausted. I’m grieving. I’m maybe a little tipsy. “It’s just… personal stuff.”

“Family responsibility,” he repeats, like he’s rolling the words around on his tongue. “Sounds serious.”

“It’s a little soap opera meets midlife crisis, but yes. Serious.”

He laughs. Actuallylaughs. Like I’m funny, like I’m not a woman whose marriage just imploded in a pile of betrayal and bad decisions. Like I’m not currently spiralling into a second act I didn’t audition for. And yet, somehow, his laugh doesn’t feel mocking, it’s warm. Smooth.

And damn it, I want to stay on the line with him.

“I don’t normally chase after candidates,” he says, voice all casual authority, guess he’s not the kind of man who gets told no very often. CEOs don’t chase. They stalk. Elegantly. In tailored suits and designer cologne.

“But I liked your style,” he adds, and something about the way he says it makes my spine straighten. “It was… direct. Refreshing.”

Right. Because nothing screamsrefreshinglike plotting murder in an elevator. But okay, fine. I’ll take the compliment.

“Thanks,” I say, trying not to sound like I’m gripping the phone with both hands. “I’m nothing if not blunt these days.”

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