For nine years, Elena Vance had been a ghost herself. Not the kind that haunts, but the kind that fades into the wallpaper, anticipating needs before they were spoken. She knew Julian Hale took his coffee black, but with two precise ice cubes after 2 p.m. She knew he couldn’t sign a contract unless the pen was a specific weight. She knew the exact micro-expression that preceded a public tantrum.

And she walked out.

“One condition,” she said. “We go to therapy. Couples counseling, individual, the whole disaster. And you learn why you turned into a monster. Not for the company. For the boy with the fire extinguisher.”

She walked back.

Julian looked up, eyes red. She set her box down on his desk.

“You’re not offering redemption, Julian. You’re offering a cage with a better view.”

Julian, mid-bite of a catered avocado toast, froze. He set the toast down. He blinked once, twice, then laughed—a short, disbelieving bark.

Julian sank into his chair. “I was fourteen. I was a stupid, scared kid too. My father was beating me at home. I… I forgot. I’m sorry.”