The storm had broken her.
Clara sat in her apartment, the curtains drawn, the city alive beyond her windows yet so far from her reach. Her phone was silent, her inbox flooded with messages she couldn't bear to open. She had left Ethan's side. She had walked away.
The board's words echoed in her mind: If you truly care about him, you'll walk away.
And she had.
But the silence that followed felt nothing like love. It felt like death.
Her chest ached with every thought of him—his steady voice, his rare smile, his hands that had held her like she was both fragile and unbreakable all at once. She wondered if he hated her now. If he thought she'd abandoned him.
She wondered if he knew she had done it to save him.
The night stretched on endlessly, tears soaking her pillow as she whispered into the darkness: "I love you. I always have."
But he wasn't there to hear it.
Ethan Blackwell hadn't slept in three days.
The moment he walked onstage for the press conference and found her missing, something inside him fractured. The words of the speech left his mouth automatically, practiced and hollow, but his mind screamed only one name.
Clara.
When the cameras turned off, when the investors patted him on the back, when the world applauded him for another victory, he felt nothing.
Because victories meant nothing without her.
The board thought they had won. That by pushing her out, they had protected him, protected the company.
But they didn't understand. She wasn't a liability. She was the reason he had survived this long.
Without her, he was already ruined.
Days bled into weeks. Clara forced herself back into routine—waking, working, breathing—but everything was mechanical. Her heart no longer beat in rhythm with life.
Every time her phone buzzed, her pulse quickened. But it was never him. Ethan didn't call. He didn't write.
And that hurt most of all.
One night, she returned home to find an envelope slipped under her door. Her name was written in Ethan's handwriting.
Her hands shook as she tore it open.
Inside was a single page. His words, written in neat, controlled script, though blotched in places where the ink had smudged.
Clara,
You once told me that people would always talk, and that it didn't matter as long as we knew what was real. You were right. But I also know you left because of me. Because you thought it would save me. And maybe in some ways, it did.
But Clara, the truth is—you were the one who saved me long before this. Long before the rumors, long before the board. You saved me the day you walked into my office with fire in your eyes and refused to be invisible. You have been the only light in a life I didn't even realize was dark.
The company doesn't need me. It can survive without me. But I cannot survive without you.
The only thing I regret is not telling you sooner. Not giving us the time we deserved. If this letter is the last thing you hear from me, then let it be this:
I love you, Clara. With every breath I have left, I love you.
—Ethan
The paper slipped from her hands as her vision blurred with tears.
"No," she whispered, clutching it to her chest. "No, no, no—"
Because there was something in his words. Something final.
She grabbed her phone, dialing his number with trembling fingers. It rang. Once. Twice. Three times.
No answer.
The next morning, news broke.
Ethan Blackwell had resigned.
The announcement stunned the business world. Headlines splashed across every outlet: Visionary CEO Steps Down. Speculation erupted, investors panicked, the board scrambled.
But all Clara saw was the single photo attached to the article: Ethan leaving the building, his expression unreadable, his figure alone against the city skyline.
Her heart clenched. He hadn't just left the company. He had left everything.
Because of her.
Clara found him two days later.
Not in the office, not in the penthouse, not in the places power resided.
But at the small café tucked away on the corner of Fifth Avenue—the same one she had once dragged him to when he claimed he didn't have time for lunch.
He was sitting by the window, a cup of black coffee untouched before him, staring at nothing.
Her breath caught. For a moment, she stood frozen in the doorway, watching the man who had once seemed invincible look utterly, heartbreakingly human.
Then she moved.
"Ethan," she whispered when she reached him.
His head lifted slowly. His eyes met hers, and something inside her shattered. They were tired, haunted—but alive.
"Clara." His voice was rough, her name a prayer.
She sat across from him, her hands trembling as she reached for his. He let her take them, his fingers curling around hers like they had always belonged there.
"You left," he said quietly. No accusation. Just truth.
Her throat tightened. "I thought I was protecting you."
"And I thought I was protecting you," he said with a sad smile. "But all we did was break each other instead."
Tears slid down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry."
His thumb brushed them away gently. "Don't be. You're the only thing in this world I don't regret."
She let out a broken laugh, choking on the weight of it all. "You wrote me a letter."
"I meant every word."
Her heart ached, her chest full to bursting. She leaned forward, her forehead against his, their breaths mingling.
"Then let this be the last thing I say," she whispered. "I love you, Ethan Blackwell. I love you more than my own fear, more than the world's judgment, more than anything I will ever lose. And I don't care what it costs. I choose you."
For a heartbeat, there was silence. Then Ethan exhaled, his entire body shuddering with relief, with release, with love.
And when he kissed her this time, it wasn't desperate or broken. It was whole.
The world kept talking.
Rumors didn't vanish overnight. The board continued their politics, the media their speculation. But Ethan and Clara no longer lived in fear of it.
Ethan never returned to the company. Instead, he built something new—something smaller, quieter, but truer to his heart. And Clara was there, not as his assistant, not hidden in the shadows, but as his partner.
It wasn't easy. Some days, the storm still raged. But together, they endured it. Together, they carved out a dawn.
And sometimes, late at night, when Clara lay in Ethan's arms, she would whisper, "Say it again."
And he would smile softly, pressing his lips to her hair.
"I love you, Clara."
The last thing he told her. The only thing that mattered.