Victor's POV
Tonight, for reasons I couldn't quite name, I'd ordered Jenkins to open the terrace doors.
The evening air was cool against my face as I wheeled myself down the stone pathway. The wheelchair's motor hummed softly, a constant reminder of what I'd lost.
I positioned myself near the fountain. The night was silent that followed broken only by the gentle splash of water and the distant hum of the city beyond the mansion's walls.
I should have felt triumphant. The gala had been a success. Emily had played her part perfectly. Better than perfectly. That kiss...
My jaw clenched involuntarily.
I'd meant it to be an act. A calculated move to silence the whispers, to prove to the board and shareholders and every vulture in that ballroom that I was still a man capable of passion, of life, of leading. That I hadn't died in that car alongside Sharon.
But the moment my lips touched Emily's, calculation had evaporated.
Her mouth had been soft, yielding, tasting faintly of champagne and something sweeter I couldn't place.
For those few stolen moments, I'd felt like a man again. Not a cripple. Not a widower. Just... a man.
The feeling had terrified me.
"Damn it," I muttered, running a hand through my hair with enough force to hurt.
This wasn't supposed to happen. Emily was a business arrangement and nothing more.
So why could I still feel the warmth of her body pressed against mine? Why did the memory of that small, desperate sound she'd made against my mouth make my chest tight with something I refused to name?
"You're letting the accident win. You're letting your disability define you."
Her words from two days ago echoed in my mind, sharp and accusing. The audacity of them still made my blood boil. Who was she to judge me? To lecture me about my choices, my life?
She was an employee. A contractor fulfilling terms we'd both agreed to. She had no right to push, to challenge, to look at me with those wide brown eyes that seemed to see straight through every defense I'd built.
And yet...
"You were hiding."
Was she right?
The question sat in my chest like a stone.
Just then my phone buzzed, shattering the silence. Charles Bennett's name flashed on the screen.
"Charles," I answered, my voice carefully neutral. "I assume you have news."
"Victor." Even through the phone, I could hear his grin. "Have you seen the news? Any news station, any financial network. Turn it on. Now."
I maneuvered my phone to pull up a news app, and there it was, blazing across every major outlet:
"HAWTHORNE RENAISSANCE: Stock Soars After Billionaire's Public Return"
"Bricks and Brains Shares Jump 23% Following Gala Appearance"
"Market Responds to Victor Hawthorne's Return to Public Life"
My breath caught.
"The board is ecstatic," Charles continued, his voice practically vibrating with excitement. "Robert called me an hour ago. They're calling off the vote, Victor. The vote of no confidence...it's dead. They got exactly what they wanted. Proof that you're stable, engaged, ready to lead."
"The stock is up twenty-three percent," I said slowly, still staring at the numbers on my screen.
"And climbing. Your appearance at the gala, the kiss, Emily...it's everywhere. Social media is on fire. The narrative has completely shifted. You're not the tragic recluse anymore. You're the phoenix rising from the ashes. The comeback story everyone wants to believe in."
I leaned back in my wheelchair, processing this. Victory. Complete and total victory. Everything I'd strategized, everything I'd risked by dragging Emily into this arrangement, had paid off exactly as planned.
So why did I feel hollow?
"This is what you wanted," Charles said, as if reading my thoughts. "Your company, your legacy, your position...all secure. The board is backing off. You've won, Victor."
"Yes," I agreed, but the word felt strange in my mouth. "I have."
"Enjoy it. You've earned this."
We ended the call, and I sat there in the gathering darkness, phone still in my hand, trying to feel the triumph that should be flooding through me.
The board had backed down. My company was safe. Stock prices were soaring. By every measurable metric, I had achieved exactly what I'd set out to do.
But Emily's face kept intruding on my triumph. The way she'd looked at me two days ago when she'd challenged me. The hurt in her eyes this morning when I'd called her "Ms. Greene" after that kiss had gone viral.
"Well done, Ms Greene."
The formality had been deliberate. A reminder to both of us about the boundaries of our arrangement. A way to reestablish the professional distance that kiss had obliterated.
It had also been cruel.
I knew that. Even as I'd said it, even as I'd watched her face shutter closed, I'd known I was hurting her. And I'd done it anyway, because hurting her was safer than acknowledging what I'd felt when I'd kissed her.
My phone rang again. This time, Robert Graf's name appeared on the screen.
I answered immediately. "Robert."
"Victor! Victor! I trust I'm not calling at an indecent hour," Robert boomed, his voice radiating a jovial pleasure.
"Not at all, Robert. I was just taking a moment in the garden."
"Splendid, splendid! I believed you must have seen the news. But frankly, Victor, we're more concerned with you. And what a magnificent display of strength and resilience yesterday was! The papers are calling you the 'Phoenix of Commerce!' We just wanted to tell you that the whole board is tremendously pleased."
"We simply can't wait to have you back at the office," he continued. "Even if it's Just to show your face. Let people see the Victor we know is back."
I nodded slowly, already formulating a plan to make a brief, powerful appearance.
"And, Victor," Robert added, his voice softening, "Please say hello to your beautiful wife. She has, indeed, been a blessing to you."
The phone call ended. I sat there, the phone resting on the armrest, basking in the warm glow of professional triumph. The coldness around my heart, the protective ice I usually wore, felt thicker, more impenetrable than ever, justified by the sheer magnitude of this win.
"Don't you think it's time for you to think about going back to the office, like I told you before?"
The voice was soft, close, and entirely unexpected. The sudden intrusion into my private moment of triumph snapped my head up.
I hadn't heard her approach. I spun my wheelchair around on the gravel, the motion sharp and aggressive, the wheels spraying small pebbles.
Emily was standing there, just a few feet behind me. She was dressed in a simple, pale sweat shirt and dark slacks, her posture relaxed but watchful. I realized with a jolt that she hadn't just appeared. She had been here all along, sitting quietly, hidden at the corner of the path, watching the evening settle, perhaps thinking about… my dismissal of her, I suspected. She had overheard the entire conversation, the full measure of my victory, the Chairman's validation, the reprieve.
Her eyes, those damned intelligent, penetrating eyes, held no trace of triumph, only a calm, unwavering challenge.
My coldness returned full force. I met her gaze with a stare, the mask of the detached CEO settling firmly back into place.
"And why is that your concern, Emily?" I shot back, my voice low and laced with steel. "Why are you bent on always challenging me and not doing what you are paid to do?"
Your job is to fuck**g stand next to me at galas. That job is now largely complete. It does not include acting as my self-appointed physical therapist or life coach."
The cruelty was deliberate, meant to sting, to remind her of the transactional nature of our relationship, to shut down the frightening intimacy of the garden, the kiss, and her impossible kindness.
She didn't flinch. Her expression remained steady, the look of a mountain facing a gale.
"You can keep lying to yourself, Victor," she said, her voice clear and without malice, only disappointment.
"You can keep building this wall and believing you are free. But running away won't change the facts. You're running away and not facing the world. The chair is not what defines your ability to lead, but your decision to hide behind it is."
The simple truth of her words was a physical blow. The adrenaline from the victory over the board evaporated, replaced by a hollow, sickening fear.
"No one is asking you to show up at the office every day," she continued, taking a slow step toward me, her hands clasped lightly in front of her. "I'm not asking you to storm the boardroom and resume work tomorrow. I'm asking you to dip your toe back in. "Just once in a while, for a start." Show them you're alive, not just a line item on a spreadsheet. And then, before you know it, you would get used to the routine and be back fully."
"Get used to the routine." Routine meant risk. Routine meant the crushing weight of expectation, the pity in my staffs' eyes, the constant, gnawing awareness of my own failure...the failure that had put me in this chair in the first place.
I slammed my fists down on the armrests of the wheelchair. The loud, sharp thud echoed in the quietness of the garden.
"Don't." The word tore from my throat, raw and ragged. I couldn't articulate the fear, the anger, the overwhelming no that screamed inside me. I wanted to tell her to leave, to disappear, to stop seeing the broken man beneath the successful facade. I wanted the cold, empty silence of my mansion back.
I stayed locked in the furious silence, staring past her shoulder into the deepening twilight. The pressure in my chest was unbearable—the pressure of the board, the pressure of Emily, the pressure of the truth she spoke.
In that moment of absolute, paralyzed rage, something unexpected happened.
I felt a sudden, inexplicable surge in my lower body. A desperate, reflexive motion that bypassed my conscious thought and my paralyzed nerves.
I hadn't moved a muscle above the waist, but my body, my legs, tried to cooperate with the fury in my mind. I tried to make a move that shocked me... I tried on my own to get up.
It wasn't successful. Not even close. It was a violent, spasming twitch, a tiny, desperate heave of my torso forward and down, straining against the restraint of the chair. It was a man trying to stand on useless legs, fueled by nothing but sheer, desperate will.
The effort was minimal, a fraction of a second, but it was enough. It was a clear, involuntary, self-initiated command that my body had attempted to obey.
I stared down at my motionless legs, my breath catching in my throat. I felt a surge of emotion so intense it was like an electrical shock: the terror of the impossible hope.
I looked up slowly. Emily hadn't moved. She was looking at me, her eyes wide, glistening in the faint light. She was staring at me in awe. Not awe of my power, but awe of the struggle. Awe of the man trying to break free.
The silence that followed was heavy, profound. There was only the sound of our breathing, and the image of that failed, desperate attempt to stand.