Jenna's POV
I worked through the weekend.
Seventy-two hours of cold calls, client pitches, contract negotiations, and desperate networking. By Monday morning, I'd secured two new client consultations and expanded one existing contract.
It wasn't anywhere near enough to hit Kieran's targets, but it was something. Proof that I was fighting.
Maya had called six times. I'd sent her texts saying I was fine, I was safe, I was just focused on work.
All lies.
I hadn't slept more than a few hours since Marcus's call. Every shadow made me jump. Every unknown number made my heart race.
But I couldn't think about that now. Right now, I had to walk into Kieran's office and present my first progress report.
At 8:55 AM, I stood outside Conference Room B with my laptop, three printed copies of my financial reports, and hands that wouldn't stop shaking.
Sarah appeared beside me with her practiced smile. Ms. Morrison. Mr. Ashford is ready for you. But I should mention
The conference room doors opened.
Fifteen people sat around the table.
Again.
His executive team wanted to track Morrison Marketing's progress, Sarah finished apologetically. Mr. Ashford thought transparency would be valuable.
My stomach dropped. He was going to humiliate me publicly. Again.
I forced my legs to carry me into that conference room.
Kieran sat at the head of the table in a charcoal suit, looking devastatingly professional. His amber eyes tracked my movement with cold precision.
Ms. Morrison, he said. Please, begin your presentation.
No greeting. No acknowledgment of the weekend that had passed. Just straight to business.
I set up my laptop with shaking hands and pulled up my first slide.
Morrison Marketing's week one progress report, I began, hating how my voice trembled slightly. Current client status, new business pipeline, and revenue projections.
I clicked to the next slide, showing my client list.
We currently maintain twenty-three active client relationships. Last week, I secured two new client consultations scheduled for this week, and successfully expanded the Hartley Group contract by fifteen percent.
Revenue impact? asked the CFO—the same man who'd laughed at my numbers last time.
I pulled up the numbers, very aware that everyone was watching. The Hartley expansion adds approximately $12,000 quarterly. The two new consultations have potential combined value of $40,000 quarterly if converted.
If converted, someone repeated skeptically.
Yes, I said, lifting my chin. Sales projections always carry inherent uncertainty
So you're counting revenue you don't actually have yet? A woman in an expensive suit looked at Kieran. Is this really the level of financial planning we're accepting?
Heat flooded my cheeks. I'm presenting pipeline projections, which is standard practice for growth reporting—
At Ashford Industries, we deal in actual numbers. Confirmed revenue. Not wishful thinking. She turned back to Kieran, dismissing me entirely.
I wanted to defend myself. To point out that every company tracks pipeline projections. But Kieran's cold gaze stopped me.
He wanted this. Wanted his team to tear me apart. Wanted me to fail publicly.
Continue with your presentation, Ms. Morrison, he said quietly.
I clicked through the remaining slides, each one met with skeptical questions or barely concealed condescension.
My marketing strategies were generic.
My target client list was unrealistic.
My timeline was optimistic at best.
By the time I reached my Q1 revenue projections, I felt like I'd been flayed alive.
So let me understand, the CFO said, leaning back in his chair. After one week of focused effort, you've secured $12,000 in confirmed new revenue and $40,000 in potential revenue. Against a quarterly target of $1,020,000.
The math was damning. Everyone in the room knew it.
It's been one week, I said, trying to keep my voice steady. Building sustainable revenue takes time
Time you don't have, Kieran interrupted. His voice was soft, deadly. You have twenty-three weeks remaining to hit your Q1 target. At your current pace, you'll fall short by approximately ninety percent.
The number hit me like a punch.
I'm aware the pace needs to accelerate, I said. That's why I've scheduled fourteen new business meetings for this week, expanded my cold outreach list, and started developing package deals for existing clients
Fourteen meetings. The woman who'd criticized my financial planning earlier laughed. Even if you converted all fourteen—which you won't—you still wouldn't hit your target.
I'm trying
Trying isn't enough, she said sharply. This is business, not art class. Results matter.
I felt myself shrinking under the assault. Every word was designed to break me. To prove I couldn't do this.
To prove Kieran was right to destroy me.
Let's review your revenue breakdown, Kieran said, pulling up one of my slides on the main screen. Walk me through this projection for the Hartley Group expansion.
I did, explaining my strategy for upselling their existing campaign into a full-service package.
Kieran listened in silence. Then, This number here. Your projected conversion rate. It's thirty-five percent higher than your historical average.
My mouth went dry. I based it on
On what? Hope? Because actual data suggests you're overestimating by a significant margin.
He was right. I'd been optimistic with my projections, banking on perfect execution and ideal circumstances.
But I'd had no choice. The targets were impossible without optimistic projections.
I can revise the numbers
To what? More realistic failure? His eyes locked on mine, and I saw something beneath the professional coldness. Something that looked like disappointment. This is embarrassing, Jenna.
The use of my first name in front of his executives made several heads turn.
I'm doing my best with limited resources
Limited resources? Kieran stood, and the entire room went silent. You have Morrison Marketing's existing infrastructure. Five employees. Established client relationships. What more do you need?
You, my traitorous mind supplied. I need you. I need your support, your investment, your faith that I can actually do this.
But I couldn't say that. Wouldn't say that.
I need time, I said instead.
You have twenty-three weeks. Use them wisely. He turned to his executives. Any other questions about Morrison Marketing's progress?
A few people asked clarifying questions, each one designed to expose another weakness in my planning.
I answered as best I could, but my exhaustion and fear made my responses slow. Uncertain.
By the time Kieran dismissed everyone, I felt like I'd been torn apart and barely stitched back together.
The executives filed out quickly, several throwing me pitying or contemptuous looks.
Then it was just us.
Kieran and me, alone in that massive conference room.
The silence stretched, heavy with everything we weren't saying.
Your projections are wrong, he said finally, still standing by the window.
I know. There was no point denying it. But the targets are impossible without optimistic projections. I'm trying to
To survive? He turned to face me, and I was struck by how tired he looked. Older. Like the past week had aged him. Is that what this is? Just survival?
What else would it be?
I don't know. That's what I'm trying to figure out. He moved closer, and I instinctively stepped back. He noticed and stopped. Why did you really come back, Jenna?
The question caught me off guard. What?
To New York. To this industry. You could have rebuilt anywhere. Seattle. Los Angeles. Boston. Anywhere I wouldn't find you. His eyes searched mine. But you came back. Why?
My throat tightened. Because I never stopped loving you. Because some broken part of me hoped you'd find me eventually. Because I'm a coward who couldn't stay away but was too afraid to come back.
I don't know, I whispered.
Yes, you do. He was close now, close enough that I could smell his cologne. See the gold flecks in his amber eyes. Tell me the truth. For once, just tell me the truth.
This was my chance. The opening I'd been too afraid to take.
Tell him about Marcus. About the diagnosis. About the five years of guilt and regret.
Tell him everything.
My mouth opened. The words were right there, desperate to escape.
I thought I was
His phone rang.
Kieran closed his eyes, frustration radiating from every line of his body. He pulled out his phone, checked the screen, and his expression shifted.
I have to take this, he said, already moving toward the door. We'll finish this conversation later.
Kieran, wait
But he was already gone, the door closing behind him with a soft click that sounded like finality.
I stood alone in that conference room, heart racing, the confession still trapped in my throat.
I'd almost told him. Almost.
My hands were shaking as I gathered my laptop and reports. I'd survived my first progress meeting, barely.
Only twenty-three more weeks to go.
Only twenty-three more meetings where Kieran's team would tear me apart and he'd watch with cold satisfaction.
Only twenty-three more chances to completely fail.
I headed for the door, desperate to escape before I completely fell apart.
Sarah was waiting in the hallway. Ms. Morrison? Mr. Ashford wanted me to remind you about the charity gala Friday evening. Nine PM. The address is
I know where it is. I'd been to that venue before, years ago, on Kieran's arm.
Back when I'd believed we had a future.
He also wanted me to give you this. She handed me an envelope.
I opened it with shaking hands.
Inside was an invitation to the gala. Thick cardstock, elegant font, my name printed formally.
And a handwritten note in Kieran's sharp script:
Victoria is looking forward to meeting you properly. Don't disappoint us.
-K
The us felt like a knife to my chest.
Us. Kieran and Victoria. A unit. A couple.
While I was the ghost of his past, forced to watch him build a future with someone else.
I made it to the elevator before the tears started.
Four days until the gala. Four days to figure out how to stand in a room full of Manhattan's elite and watch Kieran with another woman without completely falling apart.
The elevator doors opened on the lobby level.
And standing just outside the building, partially hidden behind a column, was a figure I recognized even from this distance.
Marcus.
Watching the entrance.
Waiting.
Our eyes met across the lobby, and he smiled.
Then he lifted his phone and took a photograph.
Of me.
The elevator doors started to close. I lunged forward, desperate to confront him, to demand he leave me alone.
But by the time I made it outside, he was gone.
Just like always.
Watching. Following. Disappearing.
My phone buzzed.
Unknown number. A text.
You looked upset coming out of that meeting. Did he hurt you again? You deserve better than this, Jenna. Better than him.
We need to talk. Soon.
-M
My blood ran cold.
Marcus had been watching the building. Had seen me go in for my meeting. Had been waiting to see me leave.
And now he was texting me. Getting bolder. More direct.
I stood on the Manhattan sidewalk, trapped between the man I'd destroyed and the man who'd destroyed me, and realized with terrible clarity that I couldn't keep fighting both of them alone.
I needed help.
I needed protection.
I needed to tell someone the truth before Marcus's obsession or Kieran's revenge destroyed me completely.
But who could I tell? Maya was already terrified for me. The police couldn't do anything without proof of direct threats.
And Kieran...
Kieran hated me. Would probably laugh if I came to him asking for protection from the doctor who'd orchestrated our breakup.
Or worse—he wouldn't believe me at all.
My phone buzzed again.
This time, it was Kieran:
Your next progress report is due next Monday. Same time, same place. And Jenna? Bring better numbers. My team is losing patience.
-K
Better numbers. More progress. Faster results.
While Marcus stalked me and my entire life fell apart.
I climbed into my car with shaking hands and headed back to Brooklyn.
And as I drove, I couldn't shake the feeling that I was running out of time.
That the next six months would destroy me one way or another—through Kieran's revenge, Marcus's obsession, or my own guilt and exhaustion.
Or maybe all three at once.
The only question was which one would break me first.