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Ten minutes later we were across from each other in the corner of a French bistro a few blocks from my parents' place.
He spoke first.
"You cut your hair."
When I didn't respond, he forced something out that was almost a compliment. "It suits you. It looks good."
He liked women with long hair. For seven years I—who hated heat—had kept mine waist-length and pin-straight just to match his taste.
And in those seven years, he had never once kept his offhand promise to braid it for me in the intricate style I liked.
The server brought menus. He ordered for both of us before I'd opened mine.
"Rowan, you've lost weight. Eat something. Tomorrow when we're back home, I'll take you somewhere nice."
I actually laughed. "Back home? Ashton. Have you forgotten we've only ever been dating? We are not married."
He let out a small, knowing laugh. "Rowan. Seven years. If you want to get married, just say so. Am I going to say no? You don't have to stage all of this."
I pinched the bridge of my nose.
Then I opened my phone, pulled up the signed offer letter from Calloway Capital—his biggest competitor—and slid it across the table.
He glanced at it once. Every drop of color drained from his face.
Ashton's single unforgivable sin, professionally or personally, was betrayal. One strike, forever out.
I folded my arms. My voice stayed easy.
"Mr. Sterling. I know you have pride. Even if you don't love me, it's hard to hear me end it first. So I'll give you the chance. Break up with me. I'll tell anyone who asks that you dumped me. Happy now?"
Seconds crawled past.
No answer came. I went to stand.
The fury on his face cracked into something like panic.
Seven years in, for the first time, there was something like apology in his voice.
"Rowan. Don't go. I know. I've been buried in work. I've neglected you. That's why you're acting out. I get it. I'm not even angry. We'll pay the contract penalty, whatever it costs. Just come home with me tomorrow and we forget any of this happened. Rowan. I miss your cooking."
My cooking.
Two months ago, on an ordinary workday morning, he had texted me out of the blue to make him slow-roasted short ribs.
I'd been cramping so badly I could barely stand. I'd biked in the heat to the nearest Whole Foods, bought the best ribs they had, cooked the whole meal, packed it in his Tiffany lunch tin, and carried it—pale, shaking, freezing-sweating—up to the 42nd-floor corner office.
Just as I got there, he was walking out with Juliet.
She saw the tin and snatched it with a squeal. "Aw, Rowan, thank you! Biscuit loves your short ribs. His second favorite is your seared filet."
Biscuit was the toy Pomeranian she kept at the office.
Juliet fed my lunch to the dog, right in front of me. Ashton said, "Juliet and I are going out. When the dog's done, clean it up."
I looked him dead in the eyes. My voice was steady.
"Ashton. I'm not going back with you. My parents' house is where I actually live. And I'm not marrying you. Because I don't love you anymore."
He froze. Then his laugh turned ugly.
"You don't love me anymore. We've been apart less than a week and you're telling me you've gotten over me. Rowan. Do you even hear yourself?"
I looked at him without blinking.
"Ashton. What's actually absurd is you. You made it brutally clear you were sick of me. You lit up every time Juliet texted you. You bought her everything she wanted. Why can't you just admit you cheated on me and fell in love with her? Running both of us at the same time, burning my twenties on you, you thought it was fun?"
For seven years I had been patient and warm and accommodating.
Confronted with me, airtight, cornering him—his face went red, then gray, then chalk-white.