THE INCIDENT

MISSCONFUSED (Vol. 1)

Chapter 5: The Incident

---

The Nexus account meeting was scheduled for 10 AM on Tuesday. I arrived at 9:45, which for me was practically a miracle of punctuality, armed with a color-coded binder and the kind of aggressive professionalism that comes from having something to prove.

Kiyan was already in the conference room when I walked in.

He looked up from his laptop, and something flickered across his face—surprise, maybe, or relief that I'd actually shown up. He was wearing a navy blue suit today, more casual than his usual formal attire, and he'd let his hair fall more naturally instead of styling it into submission.

He looked good. Annoyingly, distractingly good.

*Focus*, I told myself. *You're here to work. Nothing else.*

"Asenath." He stood as I entered, a gesture of respect that felt oddly formal. "Thanks for agreeing to take this on."

"Priya didn't give me much choice."

"Right. Still." He gestured to the seat across from him. "I appreciate it."

I sat, spreading my materials across the table with military precision. The timeline proposal. The revised asset calendar. The risk assessment I'd stayed up until 2 AM completing. If we were going to accelerate this launch by two weeks, we were going to do it right.

"Let's start with the deliverables," I said, not looking at him. "Your CEO wants to move the launch from March 15th to March 1st. That gives us twelve working days to complete what was supposed to take twenty-six."

"I know the math isn't great—"

"The math is terrible. It's borderline impossible." I finally met his eyes. "But I've identified a path forward. It's going to require additional resources, extended hours, and your full cooperation on approvals. No more last-minute changes, no more shifting priorities. We lock in the plan today, and we execute. No deviations."

He studied me for a moment, something almost like admiration in his expression. "You've really thought this through."

"It's my job."

"It's more than that. You're..." He shook his head, a small smile playing at his lips. "Never mind. Show me what you've got."

We spent the next two hours in deep collaboration, going line by line through the revised timeline. It was intense, demanding work—the kind that required complete focus and left no room for awkward personal dynamics. By the time we finished, I'd almost forgotten that I was supposed to be uncomfortable around him.

Almost.

"This is really impressive," Kiyan said, leaning back in his chair. "I'll take it to Derek this afternoon. I think he'll approve."

"He'd better. This is the only way to make his ridiculous timeline work."

"Noted." He started gathering his things, then paused. "Can I ask you something? Off the record?"

I tensed. "Depends on the question."

"The other day—when I asked if we could talk about the whole story. The why behind what happened in high school." He met my eyes, his expression serious. "You said you needed time. Do you have any idea when you might be ready?"

I didn't answer immediately. The truth was, I'd been avoiding thinking about it. Every time the subject came up, I found a way to deflect—focusing on work, making excuses, pretending there wasn't a conversation waiting to happen.

But here, now, with the professional distance between us temporarily dissolved, I felt something shift.

"What else is there to know?" I asked. "You told me the basics. You liked me, you panicked, you lied. What could possibly add to that?"

"Context. Background." He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "The reason I panicked wasn't just about my friends. There was more going on—stuff I've never told anyone. Stuff that explains why I was so terrified of people finding out I had feelings for you."

"More going on?"

"My parents." The word came out heavy, weighted with years of unspoken tension. "They had... expectations. Very specific expectations about who I should be, who I should date, what my future should look like. And you weren't part of that picture."

I felt something cold settle in my stomach. "Because I wasn't the right kind of girl?"

"Because you were your own person. Independent, outspoken, not interested in fitting into anyone's mold." He laughed bitterly. "My parents wanted me with someone controllable. Someone who would prioritize my career, my success, my image. And you—you would never have done that. You would have challenged me. Made me question things."

"And that was a problem?"

"For them, yes. They'd been pushing me toward certain girls—daughters of their friends, people from the 'right' families. When they found out I was interested in someone else, someone who didn't fit their plan..." He trailed off, his expression darkening.

"What happened?"

"My father pulled me aside the morning after the formal. Someone had told him about us—I still don't know who. He was furious. Said I was throwing away my future for a 'passing fancy.' Made me promise to end it before it became a distraction."

I stared at him, processing this new information. In all my years of replaying that time, of analyzing what went wrong, I'd never considered the role of outside pressure. I'd assumed Kiyan's betrayal was purely about social standing, about choosing popularity over me.

But this was different. This was family. This was the kind of pressure that could make anyone crumble.

"That doesn't excuse what you did," I said quietly.

"No. It doesn't." He met my eyes, his gaze steady. "I should have stood up to him. I should have told him that my personal life was none of his business, that I had the right to make my own choices. But I was seventeen and scared and I'd spent my whole life doing exactly what they told me."

"So you threw me under the bus instead."

"The lie—the story I told about you throwing yourself at me—it wasn't just to save face with my friends. It was to convince my parents that there was nothing real between us. That you were just some desperate girl I'd never actually been interested in." His voice cracked slightly. "I sacrificed your reputation to protect myself. And I've hated myself for it every day since."

We sat in silence, the weight of his confession settling over us like a blanket. I didn't know what to feel. Anger, certainly—that familiar burn that had sustained me for five years. But mixed with it was something unexpected: understanding. Not forgiveness, not absolution, but a recognition that the situation had been more complicated than I'd ever known.

"Why didn't you tell me this before?" I asked. "When we first talked?"

"Because I was ashamed. Because explaining that I ruined your life to please my parents felt even worse than letting you think I did it just to be popular." He laughed hollowly. "At least being a coward for social reasons has some logic to it. Being a coward because your daddy told you to is just pathetic."

"You're not pathetic."

The words surprised both of us. His eyes widened slightly, and I felt my own shock at the statement that had emerged unbidden.

"I'm not saying what you did was okay," I continued quickly. "It wasn't. It was terrible, and it hurt me in ways you'll probably never fully understand. But understanding why you did it... it doesn't change the past, but it changes how I see it."

"What do you mean?"

"I spent five years thinking I was the punchline of a cruel joke. That you saw me as entertainment, as a game. Learning that there was more to it—that you actually cared, that you were fighting your own battles—it doesn't erase the pain. But it reframes it." I took a breath. "You weren't evil. You were just weak."

"I'm not sure that's better."

"Neither am I. But at least it's something I can work with."

He was quiet for a long moment, his expression unreadable. Then, slowly, he nodded.

"Thank you," he said. "For listening. For not walking out."

"Don't thank me yet. I'm still processing."

"Fair enough."

He gathered his things and headed for the door, but paused before opening it. "Asenath?"

"Yes?"

"I know you're figuring things out. With me, with... other people." He didn't specify, but we both knew who he meant. "Whatever you decide, I just want you to know—I'm not the same person I was at seventeen. I've spent five years working on myself, trying to become someone worthy of the feelings I once had. Someone who would never choose fear over love."

"That's a nice sentiment."

"It's more than sentiment. It's a promise." He met my eyes one last time. "If you ever give me another chance, I won't waste it. Not again."

He left, and I sat alone in the conference room, my carefully organized binder suddenly feeling inadequate for the chaos inside my head.

---

I found Beryl at lunch, picking at a salad with the enthusiasm of someone who'd ordered the wrong thing but was too stubborn to admit it.

"How was the meeting?" she asked as I slid into the seat across from her.

"Productive. Intense." I stole a cherry tomato from her plate. "He told me more about what happened in high school. The real story."

Her fork paused midair. "What kind of real story?"

I recounted Kiyan's confession—his parents' pressure, the threat to his future, the impossible position he'd been in. Beryl listened silently, her expression growing more complex with each revelation.

"That's..." She set down her fork, clearly processing. "That's not what I expected."

"Me neither."

"It doesn't excuse what he did."

"I know. I told him that."

"But it explains things." She frowned, staring at her abandoned salad. "I want to hate him. It was so much easier when he was just a villain, just some asshole who hurt you for fun. Now he's... complicated."

"People usually are."

"Yeah. Frustratingly." She looked up at me, something vulnerable in her expression. "How do you feel about it? About him?"

I considered the question carefully. How did I feel? The anger was still there, but it had shifted—less like a burning fire and more like cooling embers. The hurt remained, but it was tempered now by context, by understanding, by the passage of time.

And underneath it all, something else. Something I wasn't ready to name.

"I feel confused," I admitted. "Which I realize isn't a helpful answer, but it's the honest one."

"Confused how?"

"Before today, I was pretty sure I could close the door on Kiyan. Write off our history as a lesson learned and move on." I traced patterns on the table with my finger. "But now... I don't know. Learning that he actually cared, that he's been carrying this guilt for five years, that he's been actively working on becoming a better person..."

"You're starting to see him differently."

"Maybe. Yes." I looked at her, forcing myself to meet her eyes. "And I hate that. Because I finally found something good—something real—with you. And now this is making me question everything."

Beryl was quiet for a long moment. When she spoke, her voice was carefully neutral.

"What do you want to do about it?"

"I don't know."

"Do you want to explore things with him? See if there's still something there?"

The question hung in the air, heavy with implication. I could see the fear behind her composed exterior, the vulnerability she was trying to hide.

"I don't want to hurt you," I said.

"That's not what I asked."

"I know." I reached across the table and took her hand. "What I want is to figure out what I feel before I make any decisions. And to be honest with you while I do it."

"You're being honest by telling me you might have feelings for someone else?"

"I'm being honest by telling you I'm confused. That this is harder than I thought it would be." I squeezed her hand. "You deserve to know what's going on in my head, even if it's messy."

She was silent, her thumb tracing circles on my palm. When she finally spoke, her voice was steady but sad.

"I appreciate that. The honesty, I mean." She looked up at me. "But I need you to understand something. I've loved you for seven years. I've waited for you, hoped for you, dreamed about this exact scenario—us, together, finally on the same page. And now..."

"Now I'm making it complicated."

"You're not making it complicated. It just is complicated." She sighed. "I'm trying to be understanding. To give you space to figure things out. But it's hard, Asenath. Watching you wonder if you should give him another chance when I'm right here..."

"I know. I'm sorry."

"Don't be sorry. Just..." She hesitated, then seemed to make a decision. "Just promise me you'll be fair. That you'll actually consider what we could be, not just what you and Kiyan might have been."

"I promise."

We finished lunch in subdued silence, the easy comfort between us temporarily overshadowed by heavier concerns. When we returned to the office, she headed to her desk without her usual smile, and I felt the distance like a physical ache.

This was exactly what I'd been afraid of. The confusion, the hurt, the impossibility of pleasing everyone. No matter what I chose, someone was going to get hurt.

Maybe everyone.

---

The rest of the week passed in a blur of work. The accelerated Nexus timeline demanded every ounce of my attention, leaving little room for personal drama. I worked twelve-hour days, barely seeing anyone except in the context of meetings and deliverables.

Kiyan and I developed a rhythm—efficient, professional, focused on the task at hand. Whatever personal tension existed between us got channeled into productivity. We met every morning to review progress, every afternoon to address blockers, every evening to prepare for the next day.

It was exhausting. It was also, weirdly, exhilarating.

I'd forgotten what it felt like to work with someone who matched my intensity, who pushed back on my ideas in ways that made them better, who didn't need every decision explained three times before they understood it. Kiyan was smart—genuinely, impressively smart—and working with him reminded me of why I'd been attracted to him in the first place.

Not the superficial attraction, though that was certainly there. But the deeper thing: the intellectual connection, the energy between us, the way our minds seemed to work on parallel frequencies.

I tried not to think about what that meant.

Beryl and I still texted, still met for coffee when we could, still exchanged looks across the office that said more than words. But something had shifted between us. A wariness, a hesitation, a holding-back that hadn't been there before.

I hated it. But I didn't know how to fix it without resolving the bigger question—and I wasn't ready for that yet.

Friday arrived with the promise of our planned date. I'd made reservations at a nice restaurant downtown, bought a new dress, mentally prepared myself for an evening focused entirely on Beryl, on us, on what we could be without the shadow of Kiyan looming over everything.

Then the incident happened.

---

It started around 4 PM, when Derek Chen—Kiyan's CEO—decided he needed an "emergency strategy session" to discuss last-minute changes to the launch plan. The same launch plan that we'd finalized three days ago. The same plan that was already in production across half a dozen vendors.

"He wants what?" I stared at Kiyan in disbelief.

"New messaging. He's concerned the current angle isn't 'disruptive' enough." Kiyan looked as frustrated as I felt. "I told him we're locked in, that changes at this point would be catastrophic, but he's insisting."

"We have vendors on deadline. Creative is done. The website goes live Monday morning."

"I know."

"If we change the messaging now, everything unravels. We'd have to—" I stopped, doing the math in my head. "We'd have to work through the weekend. All weekend. And even then, it might not be enough."

"I know." Kiyan's expression was grim. "I'm sorry. I've been pushing back, but he's not listening."

"When is this 'emergency session' supposed to happen?"

"Now. He's on his way to the office."

I checked the time. 4:17 PM. I was supposed to meet Beryl at 7:00 for our date. If this meeting went long—and emergency meetings with demanding CEOs always went long—there was no way I'd make it.

"I need to make a call," I said.

I stepped out of the conference room and dialed Beryl's number. She picked up on the second ring.

"Hey, I was just about to head home to get ready. What's up?"

I closed my eyes, hating myself for what I was about to say. "There's an emergency with the Nexus account. Derek Chen is demanding last-minute changes and he's on his way to the office right now."

Silence on the other end.

"What does that mean for tonight?" she asked, her voice carefully neutral.

"I don't know yet. It might be a quick conversation, in which case I can still make dinner. But if it turns into a full strategy overhaul..." I trailed off.

"You might have to cancel."

"I might have to postpone. Just a few hours—I could text you when we're done, and we could—"

"Asenath." Her voice cut through my rambling. "Stop."

I stopped.

"It's okay," she said, though her tone suggested it was anything but. "Work happens. I get it."

"I'm so sorry. I really wanted tonight to be special."

"I know. Me too." There was a pause, heavy with things unsaid. "Just... let me know when you're done. We can figure it out then."

"Okay. I will. I promise."

"Good luck with the meeting."

She hung up, and I stood in the hallway, phone in hand, feeling like I'd just failed a test I didn't know I was taking.

---

Derek Chen arrived at 4:47 PM with the energy of a man who believed his time was more valuable than everyone else's combined. He swept into the conference room, demanded coffee (decaf, oat milk, two sugars—very specific), and immediately launched into his concerns.

Which were, as I'd feared, extensive.

"The messaging lacks edge," he declared, pacing the room like a general addressing troops. "We're launching a revolutionary product, and we're talking about it like it's a scheduling app. Where's the vision? Where's the disruption?"

"The current messaging tested extremely well with focus groups," I said, keeping my voice level. "We have data showing—"

"Data is backward-looking. I'm talking about the future." He waved dismissively. "Consumers don't know what they want until we tell them. We need to lead, not follow."

I glanced at Kiyan, who was wearing the expression of someone who'd had this conversation many times before.

"What specifically would you like to change?" Kiyan asked.

"Everything. The tagline, the value proposition, the entire narrative arc." Derek finally sat down, spreading his hands on the table. "I want something that makes people feel something. That makes them sit up and pay attention."

"The launch is in four days," I pointed out. "Even if we had a new direction right now, there's no way to implement it across all channels in time."

"Then find a way."

"That's not—"

"Figure it out." His voice hardened. "That's what I'm paying you for, isn't it? Problem-solving? Innovation? Or can't your agency deliver under pressure?"

I felt my blood pressure spike. There were so many things I wanted to say—most of them inappropriate for a professional setting. But I was saved from career-ending honesty by Kiyan intervening.

"Derek, what if we took a hybrid approach?"

Derek turned to him, eyebrow raised. "Explain."

"The current messaging stays for the primary channels—it's too late to change the website and the major vendor deliverables. But we create a parallel campaign: a social media blitz, influencer content, maybe a guerrilla marketing component. Something with the edge you're looking for, designed to complement the main launch and add the 'disruption' factor without derailing what's already in motion."

Derek considered this, his frown slowly transforming into something that might have been approval.

"That could work," he said. "A two-pronged approach. Foundational messaging for the broad market, cutting-edge content for the tastemakers."

"Exactly. We keep the core launch stable while layering in the disruptive elements you want."

"And you can do this by Monday?"

"If we start now and work through the weekend, yes." Kiyan glanced at me. "Asenath?"

I was trapped. Kiyan's solution was genuinely clever—it preserved our work while giving Derek what he wanted. But it also committed me to working all weekend, which meant canceling on Beryl entirely, which meant...

*One thing at a time*, I told myself. *Get through this meeting first.*

"It's aggressive, but doable," I said. "We'd need full support from your team—no delays on approvals, immediate feedback on concepts, twenty-four-hour availability."

"Done." Derek stood, apparently satisfied now that he'd gotten his way. "I want hourly updates. And this better work."

He swept out as dramatically as he'd arrived, leaving Kiyan and me alone in the sudden silence.

"Well," Kiyan said. "That happened."

"You just committed us to working all weekend."

"I know. I'm sorry." He looked genuinely apologetic. "It was the only way to save the launch. And our relationship with the client."

"I had plans tonight. Important plans."

"With Beryl?"

I didn't answer, which was answer enough.

Kiyan sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. "I really am sorry. If there was any other way..."

"There isn't. I know." I started gathering my things, already mentally reorganizing my life. "I need to make some calls. We'll reconvene in an hour?"

"Sounds good. And Asenath?"

"What?"

"Thank you. For stepping up. For not walking out when Derek was being... himself."

"It's my job."

"It's more than that." He met my eyes, something warm in his expression. "But I'll take it."

---

The call to Beryl was worse than I'd expected.

"So you're canceling," she said flatly.

"I'm postponing. I have to work all weekend, but maybe next—"

"You're canceling our first real date to work on a project with Kiyan."

When she put it that way, it sounded terrible. Because it was terrible.

"I don't have a choice. The client is demanding—"

"There's always a choice, Asenath." Her voice was tight with controlled emotion. "You could have said no. Could have pushed back. Could have set a boundary for once in your life."

"That's not fair."

"Isn't it?" She laughed, but there was no humor in it. "I've been trying so hard to be understanding. To give you space to figure things out. But every time you have to choose between me and that account—between me and him—you choose them."

"That's not true."

"Isn't it? You took the project even though you knew it meant working closely with Kiyan. You've spent every waking hour with him for the past week. And now, when we finally had something planned for just us, you're canceling to spend the weekend with him."

"Working with him. On a professional project. With a whole team of other people."

"Right. Because context makes everything okay." She took a shaky breath. "I can't do this anymore, Asenath."

My blood went cold. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I can't keep waiting. Keep hoping. Keep telling myself that eventually you'll choose me." Her voice cracked. "I've been second choice for seven years. I can't handle being second choice now that I've finally told you how I feel."

"You're not second choice—"

"Then prove it. Cancel the work. Keep our date. Show me that I matter as much as you say I do."

The ultimatum hung in the air between us, impossible and unfair and completely understandable. She was hurt. She was scared. She was watching her worst fears come true in real-time.

But she was also asking me to do something I couldn't do. The launch was four days away. Canceling now would tank the project, damage my professional reputation, and potentially cost the agency a major client.

"I can't," I said quietly.

Silence.

"I see." Her voice was cold now, all the warmth drained out. "I think I finally understand where I stand."

"Beryl, please—"

"I need some time. To think. To figure out if this is something I can accept." She paused, and when she spoke again, she sounded exhausted. "Maybe you need time too. To figure out what you actually want."

"I know what I want—"

"Do you? Because from where I'm standing, it seems like you want everything without having to choose anything. You want me and you want to figure things out with Kiyan and you want your career and you want everyone to wait patiently while you take your time deciding." Her breath hitched. "But I'm tired of waiting. I've been waiting for seven years."

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying... I need space. Real space. Not the 'we're fine, I just need to process' kind. The kind where we don't talk for a while. Where I get to figure out if I can handle being with someone who might never fully choose me."

Tears were streaming down my face now, though I couldn't remember when they'd started. "Please don't do this."

"I'm not doing anything. You made a choice. I'm just responding to it."

"It wasn't a choice between you and—"

"It was. Maybe you didn't see it that way, but it was." She took a long, steadying breath. "Goodbye, Asenath. I hope your launch goes well."

She hung up.

I stood in the hallway, phone pressed to my ear, listening to the empty silence of a disconnected call. Around me, the office continued its normal Friday bustle—people heading home, wrapping up their weeks, blissfully unaware that my world had just crumbled.

*She left*, I thought numbly. *I pushed her away and she left.*

The rational part of my brain tried to intervene. She hadn't left permanently. She'd asked for space. That wasn't the same as ending things. There was still hope, still a chance to fix this once the launch was over—

But another part of me, the part that knew Beryl better than I knew myself, understood the truth. This wasn't a temporary break. This was the beginning of the end. Seven years of waiting, one week of trying, and I'd managed to destroy it all by being unable to make a choice.

I slid down the wall until I was sitting on the floor, my back against the cold surface, my head in my hands. The tears came harder now, great wracking sobs that I tried to muffle with my palms.

This was my fault. All of it. I'd been so focused on keeping my options open, on not making a decision until I was sure, that I'd lost the option that mattered most.

"Asenath?"

I looked up. Kiyan was standing a few feet away, his expression shifting from concern to alarm as he took in my state.

"What happened? Are you okay?"

"No." The word came out broken, barely audible. "I'm not okay."

He didn't hesitate. He crossed the distance between us and sat down beside me on the floor, his shoulder warm against mine.

"Tell me."

So I did. Between sobs, in fragments and half-sentences, I told him about Beryl's ultimatum. About the choice I'd been forced to make. About the seven years of waiting and the one week of hope and the phone call that ended it all.

He listened without interrupting, without judging, without trying to fix anything. He just sat there, a steady presence in my storm, letting me fall apart.

When I finally ran out of words, he spoke.

"This is my fault."

"What? No—"

"If I hadn't suggested the parallel campaign, you wouldn't have to work this weekend. You could have kept your date. You could have—"

"Don't." I shook my head weakly. "Your solution saved the project. It was the right call professionally."

"But personally—"

"Personally, I made my own choices. I took this project knowing the risks. I prioritized work over my relationship. That's on me, not you."

We sat in silence for a while, the sounds of the emptying office distant and irrelevant. Eventually, Kiyan spoke again.

"Do you want to go after her?"

"What?"

"Beryl. Do you want to go after her? Skip the meeting, skip the work, go find her and try to fix things?"

I stared at him. "The launch is in four days."

"I know. But some things are more important than launches."

"You're telling me to choose her over the project? Over working with you?"

He met my eyes, his gaze steady. "I'm telling you that I've spent five years regretting a choice I made to protect my career over something real. And I'm not going to watch you make the same mistake."

I didn't know what to say. This was Kiyan—the person I was supposed to be confused about, the complication in my love life—telling me to go fight for someone else.

"I thought you wanted a chance with me."

"I do." He smiled sadly. "But not like this. Not because you lost her and I was the fallback. If we ever have something, I want it to be because you chose me. Not because you didn't have any other options."

"That's... surprisingly noble."

"I'm working on it." He stood, offering me his hand. "Go. I'll handle things here."

"You can't do this alone."

"I won't be alone. I'll call in the team, explain the situation, figure it out." He pulled me to my feet. "Your relationship matters more than a product launch. Even if it doesn't feel that way right now."

I stood there, torn between gratitude and confusion and the overwhelming need to do something. He was right. Beryl mattered more than work. She'd always mattered more than work—I'd just been too caught up in my own indecision to show her.

"Thank you," I said.

"Go get her. And Asenath?"

"Yeah?"

"Whatever happens—with her, with us, with any of it—I'm glad I met you again. Even if this is all we ever have."

I hugged him, quickly and fiercely, then grabbed my bag and ran for the elevator.

---

Beryl's apartment was a fifteen-minute cab ride from the office. I spent the entire trip rehearsing what I was going to say, discarding each version as inadequate.

*I'm sorry* wasn't enough. *I choose you* sounded performative. *Please give me another chance* was begging, but maybe begging was what this required.

The cab pulled up to her building. I paid without checking the amount and ran for the entrance, my heart pounding in my chest.

The buzzer felt like the longest minute of my life. When her voice finally crackled through the speaker, I nearly collapsed with relief.

"Who is it?"

"It's me. Please, Beryl—I need to talk to you."

Silence. Then, after what felt like forever:

"I told you I needed space."

"I know. And I'll give you space—after you hear what I have to say. Please. Five minutes. That's all I'm asking."

Another long pause. Then the door buzzed open.

I took the stairs two at a time, not trusting the elevator to be fast enough. By the time I reached her floor, I was out of breath and probably looked insane, but I didn't care.

She was waiting in the doorway, her arms crossed, her expression guarded. She'd been crying—I could see the traces of it on her face—and the sight made my heart crack further.

"Five minutes," she said.

"I quit the project."

Her eyes widened. "What?"

"Well, not quit exactly. Kiyan is covering for me. But I'm here, not there, because you were right." I stepped closer, stopping just short of touching her. "You were right about everything. I've been trying to have it all—you, him, my career, my options—without actually committing to anything. And that's not fair. It's not fair to you, it's not fair to him, and honestly, it's not fair to me either."

"Asenath—"

"Let me finish. Please." I took a deep breath. "I've been confused for weeks. Maybe longer. But standing in that hallway after you hung up, I realized something: I wasn't confused about whether I had feelings for you. That part was never in question. I was confused about whether I deserved to act on them."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean I've spent five years protecting myself. Keeping everyone at arm's length because it was safer than risking getting hurt again. And when you told me how you felt—when you offered me something real—I panicked. I looked for reasons to hesitate, for complications that would give me an excuse not to commit."

"Kiyan."

"Kiyan was part of it. But he was mostly a distraction. A way for me to avoid dealing with the fact that you were offering me everything I ever wanted, and I was terrified of accepting it." I felt tears threatening again, but I pushed through. "I'm sorry. I'm so sorry for making you wait, for making you wonder, for making you feel like you were second choice. You were never second choice. You were always the answer—I was just too scared to see it."

Beryl's expression had softened, the guardedness giving way to something more vulnerable.

"What are you saying?"

"I'm saying I choose you. Not because Kiyan rejected me, not because I ran out of options, but because you're the person I want to be with. You're the person I've been wanting to be with this whole time—I just needed to get out of my own way to realize it."

"How do I know you won't change your mind? That you won't get confused again when he looks at you a certain way or says the right thing?"

"You don't. And I can't promise I'll be perfect. But I can promise that I'll choose you—actively, deliberately, every single day. Not as a default, but as a decision." I reached out, finally, and took her hands in mine. "I love you, Beryl. I think I've loved you for a long time. I was just too stupid to recognize it."

She was crying now too, silent tears tracking down her cheeks. "You love me?"

"I love you. I'm in love with you. I want to be with you—really be with you, without reservations or complications or escape routes." I squeezed her hands. "If you'll still have me."

She didn't answer with words.

She answered with a kiss.

It was nothing like the kiss in the sandwich shop—tentative and exploratory. This was fierce, desperate, the release of weeks of tension and fear and longing. She pulled me into her apartment, kicked the door closed behind us, and kissed me like she was trying to memorize me.

When we finally broke apart, both of us breathing hard, she was smiling through her tears.

"I love you too," she said. "I've loved you since we were fifteen. And I will probably love you until I die."

"That's a lot of pressure."

"You can handle it."

I laughed, half-sob and half-joy, and pulled her back into my arms. We stood there, wrapped around each other, two people who had finally, finally found their way to the same page.

The launch would happen without me. The project would survive. Kiyan would understand—he'd practically pushed me out the door to make this happen.

And for the first time in a very long time, I knew exactly what I wanted.

Her. Always her.

---

**End of Chapter 5**

***Download NovelToon to enjoy a better reading experience!***