One night, after everyone else had left the office, you found her in the conference room with her heels off and files spread around her like battlefield maps.
“You did all this because of the company?” you asked.
She looked up. “Not only.”
“Then why?”
She closed the last file and sat back. “Because I got tired of watching men call cruelty efficiency.”
You loved her so fiercely in that moment it scared you.
So you told her.
Not with grand speech. Not with flowers or some polished line from movies neither of you trusted. You just stood in the fluorescent quiet and said, “I need to tell you something before it grows mean inside me.”
Her eyes stayed on yours.
“I didn’t marry you for love,” you said. “You know that.”
“I do.”
“But I love you now. And I think maybe I have for a while.”
She stared at you for so long you began to feel each second physically.
Then she laughed.
Not at you. In disbelief. In relief so sharp it sounded almost broken.
“You idiot,” she whispered.
Your heart kicked hard against your ribs. “That’s not the response I hoped for.”
She stood slowly. “I’ve been in love with you since the night you saw my scars and looked horrified for me instead of by me.”
Every breath in your body seemed to stop and restart at once.
