Page 51 of Executive Privilege

"Yeah," I say finally. "I think I'm done."

But even as I say it, I know it's not entirely true. You don't stop loving someone just because they're incapable of loving you back. You don't stop caring about their wellbeing just because they've made it clear they don't want your care.

You just stop expecting them to change.

Wednesday morning, I return to Event Horizons with a plan. Professional distance, polite competence, and the kind of emotional boundaries that protect your heart from further damage. The irony that his tactics have now become my own is not lost on me.

Nicholas is already in his office when I arrive.

"Sadie!" Angie bounces over to my desk with her usual morning enthusiasm. "How was your day off yesterday? You missed all the drama."

"What drama?"

"Nicholas was a complete wreck all day. Frankie said he looked like he hadn't slept in a week, and he kept staring at his computer like it was going to explode. Then around lunch, something changed. He spent the rest of the day on calls withHartwell, and by evening, he seemed... I don't know, relieved? But also somehow worse."

"Worse how?"

"Like someone who'd gotten good news that didn't make him happy. Does that make sense?"

Unfortunately, it makes perfect sense. Nicholas got proof that I'm not the enemy, which solved his professional crisis but highlighted his personal one. Now he knows he pushed away someone who genuinely cared about him because he was too damaged to trust his own judgment about people.

"It makes sense," I say. "Some problems are easier to solve than others."

My computer chimes with a new email from Nicholas:

"Team meeting in Conference Room A at 10 AM. Morrison campaign debrief and Q4 planning."

Professional. Distant. Like nothing happened between us, I tell myself. I can do this.

The team meeting is a masterclass in professional awkwardness. Nicholas runs through the Morrison campaign results—client satisfaction, successful content delivery, potential for future business—while I take notes and contribute when directly asked.

We don't make eye contact. We don't reference our trip to Dallas. We certainly don't mention cabin sex.

We act like colleagues who have worked together on a successful project and are now moving on to the next assignment.

It's excruciating.

"Excellent work, everyone, on the Morrison campaign," Nicholas says as the meeting winds down. "The client relationship isstrong, and the campaign is already exceeding all performance metrics."

General murmurs of satisfaction from the team. I keep my expression neutral and professional.

"Looking ahead to Q4, we have several exciting opportunities," Nicholas continues. "I'll be meeting with potential clients individually to discuss assignments and strategic direction."

After the meeting, I return to my desk and dive into routine work—social media calendars, content planning, the kind of busy work that keeps your mind occupied and your heart safely distracted.

Frankie appears beside my desk with coffee and a concerned expression, her graceful hands perfectly manicured as she sets down the cup.

"Okay, I have to ask. What's going on between you and Nicholas?"

"Nothing's going on. We're colleagues working on professional projects."

"Bullshit. Yesterday he looked like someone had died, and today you're both acting like polite strangers who happened to work on the same campaign."

"Maybe because that's what we are."

"That's definitely not what you are. I've seen the way you two look at each other, the chemistry during meetings, the way he lights up when you challenge his ideas."

"You're seeing things that aren't there."