What Remains
Life after power is quieter than Elliot expects.
No endless meetings. No board demands disguised as courtesy. No need to dominate every room to survive it.
He doesn't say that out loud.
But I see it—in the way his shoulders loosen, in how he lingers over coffee instead of checking his phone, in the way silence no longer feels like an enemy.
We move slowly.
Intentionally.
No grand gestures. No headlines.
Just mornings that begin without urgency and nights that end without armor.
I get promoted.
Not because of who I'm with—but despite it.
Maya hugs me in the hallway. "You earned this," she says. "All of it."
I believe her.
When I tell Elliot, his pride is quiet but fierce. "Good," he says. "You should always outgrow the rooms you're in."
I smile. "That sounds like something you're learning."
He exhales. "Painfully."
We argue.
Not about jealousy or control—but about dishes, about schedules, about whose turn it is to compromise.
It's strangely grounding.
One night, as rain taps against the windows, he admits something he's never said aloud.
"I don't know who I am without being in charge."
I take his hand. "Then you get to find out. Without performing."
He nods slowly. "That's terrifying."
"Yes," I agree. "But it's honest."
The world doesn't stop watching.
Articles still appear. Opinions still form.
But the story loses urgency when it stops being volatile.
No scandal survives consistency.
One evening, months later, we walk along the river, city lights reflecting in the water.
"I used to think love was a liability," Elliot says.
"And now?" I ask.
He stops walking, turning to me. "Now I think it's infrastructure."
I laugh softly. "You really can't stop being a strategist."
"Maybe not," he says. "But I'm learning what's worth building."
He doesn't propose.
Not yet.
Instead, he kisses my temple and says, "Stay."
Not as a command.
As a request.
I answer without hesitation. "I am."