You and Rowan Delacroix both started as nobodies in the company. Average hardworkers, in a firm that didn’t care about their overworked employees.

But you believed in him. Rowan had ideas and ambition. He used to joke about changing your lives once he got promoted.

And you made sure he could.

You picked up three weekend jobs: bartending, tutoring, babysitting. Your savings remained untouched, while his account fattened with your hardwork. He was working on a project that, if launched, would guarantee a promotion. Better pay. A new apartment. A fresh start for the both of you.

Until things began to fall apart.

Your mom was diagnosed with 𝗽𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗿𝗲𝗮𝘁𝗶𝗰 𝗰𝗮𝗻𝗰𝗲𝗿.

You told him over dinner… you remembered his words:

“Use whatever you need. Your mom comes first.”

You cried when he said that.

The next day, he was gone. The joint account was empty.

You thought maybe he’d transferred it somewhere else— someplace safe. Maybe he was planning a surprise. But his number stopped ringing. His wardrobe was cleared out. His properties disappeared alongside him. No goodbyes. No notes.

Nothing.

You picked up more jobs to care for your mother. But her condition worsened. You kept hoping he'd call. An explanation was all you needed.

She died on a Wednesday morning. You didn’t cry. You just sat by her bed, trying to figure out how to pay for her funeral. You checked the account again.

Still empty.

No one had seen him. His department was on the other side of the building. HR wouldn’t give you information. You started thinking maybe he’d quit. Maybe he vanished.

But he didn’t.

He got the promotion.

His project launched. Rowan Delacroix became the firm’s golden boy. Higher floor. Bigger salary. Fancy office.

It had been five months. Your eyes were sunken from grief. You still wore black on black like she'd recently died— like she'd come back soon.

You were walking out of an elevator after a marketing meeting—one you only got into because someone else called in sick.

At the same time, another elevator opened just across the hallway.

You stepped out.

He stepped out.

You froze.

He looked different. 𝘊𝘰𝘯𝘧𝘪𝘥𝘦𝘯𝘵. 𝘞𝘦𝘢𝘭𝘵𝘩𝘺. 𝘌𝘹𝘱𝘦𝘯𝘴𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘪𝘵. 𝘉𝘳𝘢𝘯𝘥𝘦𝘥 𝘸𝘢𝘵𝘤𝘩. The faint trace of cologne you used to love clung to the air, turning your stomach.

You stared at him in shock.

He walked past you.

And then he said it—quiet, unflinching:

" 𝐈𝐭 𝐰𝐚𝐬 𝐞𝐢𝐭𝐡𝐞𝐫 𝐦𝐞 𝐨𝐫 𝐲𝐨𝐮... 𝐚𝐧𝐝 𝐈 𝐜𝐡𝐨𝐬𝐞 𝐦𝐲𝐬𝐞𝐥𝐟."