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He throws me a look thick with accusation, disappointment burning so clearly on his face it almost scorches me. But he still doesn’t speak.

“I stayed only because I was tired…” I say, but the words die on my tongue.

I look down, because now comes the part that hurts.

The truth I’ve never said aloud. The truth I’ve buried because saying it makes it real.

I pull my hand away from him and turn my back, unable to handle the weight of his gaze a second longer.

I’m going to tell him everything, but I can’t do it while looking at him.

“I was tired of seeing Irina come to your office all the time. Tired of watching the privacy system activate every two out of three times. Tired of seeing how natural and easy the two of you communicated…” I pause, inhaling shakily, my heart pounding like it wants out of my chest, guilt coiling tight beneath my ribs at the mere sound of her name on my tongue.

I stand with my back to him, eyes closed, speaking into the quiet, my fingers clenched into my palms as if I could steady the unease crawling under my skin.

“I was tired of realizing, with every passing day, that I wanted more with you… even though I knew you would never want more than sex,” I confess.

The truth hits the air with a weight that almost drops me to my knees.

“Yes, I stayed at that dinner with John…” he groans behind me when I say that name, a deep, angry sound that vibrates in the room.

But I keep my eyes shut, feet firmly planted, even as shame flickers through me, sharp and unwelcome.

If I’ve started confessing, I’m going all the way.

“I didn’t know it was a date,” I whisper. “And then I decided to stay for all the wrong reasons. I know I should’ve come to you and told you what I felt, what I thought… not acted like that. But it’s too late now to change anything.”

God. It’s out. All of it.

“I gave him my number at the end because he said it would be easier to communicate like that than through official emails,” I add, the memory burning in my chest. “I did it because I thought you’d never hesitate to take another woman’s number if you wanted her.”

I wrap my arms around myself, holding my own trembling ribs together, as if I can contain the tight, sinking feeling spreading through my chest.

“I didn’t reply to any of his messages. And tonight he texted to say he understood I’m not interested and that we’ll keep everything strictly professional.”

I finish on a long, deep breath, trying to control myself, to reclaim even a fraction of my control.

I wait, frozen, back still turned.

He says nothing.

Not a sound, not a breath, not even a shift of weight.

When I realize he isn’t planning to respond, I feel something crack deep inside me, brittle and irreversible. My body moves on instinct, taking quick steps toward the door, desperate to escape before my chest caves in completely.

“Do you realize that this whole time all you’ve done is think for me, decide for me, and convince yourself that your assumptions were my thoughts and my actions?” he asks calmly, too calmly, just as I reach the door.

I stop.

But I don’t turn around.

His words slide down my spine like cold water, cruel and sobering, and for a moment I simply stand there, letting them settle, letting them twist through everything I was so sure about—including every conclusion I drew when it came to Irina.

“How would you feel if you saw pictures of me with Irina, or any other woman, while you thought there was something between us?” he throws back, his tone accusatory.

Guilt rises in my chest, but it’s drowned just as quickly by the familiar sting of hurt.

“Probably the same way I felt every time she was in your office or at your meetings,” I snap, bitterness cutting through my voice before I can soften it.