Chapter 44 Learning to Move On
Elena's POV
I didn't expect him to change.
Damian Cross was many things - brilliant, stubborn, occasionally unbearable - but never indifferent.
Until now.
He'd barely looked at me all night. Just silence, clipped responses, eyes that saw straight through me like I was another line on the company's expense sheet.
It should've made things easier. It didn't.
By the time I got home, I was still thinking about him - the way he said "That's peace. You should try it." Like moving on was something you could do with a switch.
I poured a glass of wine, sat on the couch, and opened my laptop. The report we'd just finished glared back at me - precise, polished, cold. Just like him.
Lucas had texted earlier:
Dinner tomorrow?
I hadn't replied.
There was nothing wrong with Lucas. He was smart, kind, steady - the kind of man who didn't leave you guessing what he felt. But he wasn't Damian.
And that was the problem.
I used to think time would fix everything - that if I worked hard enough, laughed enough, distracted myself enough, the space he left would fill itself. But standing across from him tonight, I realized the truth: time didn't heal anything you refused to let die.
And I hadn't let it die.
Not really.
The next morning, I arrived at the office before everyone else. Habit, mostly. The building was quiet, the kind of quiet I used to crave when I was still building all this from scratch. Back then, Damian would show up an hour later with two coffees - one for me, one for himself, pretending it was an accident.
Now I made my own.
He walked in at exactly nine. Suit pressed. Tie straight. Calm.
"Morning," he said simply.
"Morning."
That was it. No warmth, no tension. Just professional courtesy.
It annoyed me how good he'd gotten at it.
By ten, we were both in the glass conference room again, reviewing the Halcyon deal. He focused on the numbers. I tried to focus on anything but him.
At one point, he leaned over my shoulder to point at a line on the screen - close enough that I could feel the heat of him, smell that same faint cologne he'd always worn. My breath caught before I could stop it.
He didn't react. Just said, "This projection is off. Adjust it."
I forced my voice steady. "I know. I was getting to it."
"Good."
That was it. No teasing. No smirk. Just business.
And somehow, that hurt more than any argument we'd ever had.
Later that afternoon, during a short break, I found him standing by the window of his office, scrolling through emails. He didn't notice me at first.
"Damian."
He looked up. "Yeah?"
"I wanted to talk about the new assistant situation. HR sent over a few profiles."
He nodded. "I'll review them."
"Good," I said, crossing my arms. "Because if you keep overworking yourself like this, we'll both crash before the next quarter."
He gave a small, humorless smile. "I've survived worse."
"That's not the point."
He set the phone down. "Then what is?"
"That you don't have to do everything alone."
His expression flickered - something between exhaustion and disbelief. "Since when do you care if I burn out?"
"I always did," I said quietly.
"Right," he murmured. "You cared right up until you didn't."
The words hit sharper than I expected. "That's not fair."
He looked at me - really looked - for the first time in weeks. "Neither was everything that came before."
I swallowed hard. "You said you've moved on."
"I have."
"Then stop trying to hurt me."
"I'm not," he said simply. "That's the difference now - I'm just telling the truth."
For a moment, we just stared at each other. No yelling, no accusations. Just two people standing in the ruins of what used to make sense.
Then his phone buzzed. He glanced down, typed something quickly, and the moment was gone.
"We have a client call in ten," he said. "Let's stay on schedule."
I nodded, though my chest felt tight. "Of course, Mr. Cross."
His eyes flicked up briefly. "Elena-"
But whatever he was going to say, he didn't. He just turned back to his desk, signaling that the conversation was over.
Fine. Two could play that game.
By evening, the office had emptied again. Just us - as usual. He worked quietly at his end of the table, glasses sliding slightly down his nose as he typed. I watched him once, then forced myself to stop.
This wasn't love anymore. This was memory - sharp, persistent, and useless.
At around nine, I started packing up. "You should go home," I said.
"I will."
"You said that an hour ago."
"I meant eventually."
I sighed, slipping my laptop into my bag. "You're impossible."
"Efficient," he said without looking up.
I almost laughed. "You really think work will fix you?"
He paused, then looked at me over the rim of his glasses. "I don't need fixing."
"Everyone does, Damian."
He closed the file, stood, and met my gaze across the table. "No, Elena. Some of us just finally accepted that we broke."
There it was again - that quiet, steady truth that cut deeper than shouting ever could.
He walked past me to grab his jacket, the faintest hint of weariness in his shoulders.
At the door, he stopped. "Get some rest."
"I was about to say the same to you."
He gave a short nod, almost a smile, and left.
I stood there long after he was gone, staring at the empty chair across from me.
He was really done.
And for the first time, I realized that maybe I was the one who hadn't learned how to be.
The next morning, I woke to a text from Lucas again.
Dinner tonight. No work talk. Promise.
I looked at it for a long time before typing a reply.
Sure. Dinner sounds nice.
Maybe that was my version of moving on - not forgetting Damian, not forgiving him, just... letting the space between us exist without trying to fill it.
I didn't need to win anymore. I just needed to stop bleeding from the same wound.
And maybe, finally, I was ready to.