Chapter 3

Vivian, the HR manager, didn't approve my resignation. She asked me to come to her office the next day to talk.

The next morning brought a downpour. I hadn't brought an umbrella and was drenched by the time I ran into the building.

I was wringing water from my clothes in the lobby when a black Bentley pulled up outside.

Eric stepped out with an umbrella, sheltering Sarah in the crook of his arm as they climbed the steps together.

He spotted me and frowned. "Why didn't you call me for a ride?"

Sarah covered her mouth. "Seriously, Harper—it's on the way! You're soaking wet. What kind of image does that give the company?"

I said nothing, quietly straightening my wet sleeves.

I'd asked him so many times before.

On rainy days when I couldn't get a cab, I'd ask if he could pick me up since he drove right past.

He'd only ever reply with cold indifference: "I'm in a rush. Besides, it wouldn't look good if colleagues saw. Just take an Uber."

I looked up at him:

"Director Eric, we've already broken up. Please don't say things that could give people the wrong idea."

A flash of triumph flickered in Sarah's eyes. Eric's gaze went ice-cold:

"Fine. Let's see how long you keep this up. Sarah, let's go."

In her office, Vivian sighed:

"Harper, are you sure about this?"

She studied me, her expression caught between admiration and regret.

"Back then you turned down an offer from an international firm to come here for Eric. You've finally worked your way up to project lead. Quitting over a lovers' quarrel—it's not worth it."

Vivian was my college classmate.

I gave a tired smile. "Vivian, this isn't spite. We really broke up."

"My grandma passed away. I want to take her home. Manhattan isn't the place for me anymore."

She stared at me for a long time, then sighed:

"Alright. But you've been on this core project for three years. You need to see it through—it'll be important for your next job search."

I agreed, grateful.

My flight was booked for next Wednesday—just enough time to wrap things up.

To finish sooner, I stayed late working into the night.

At some point Eric appeared, rapping his knuckles on my desk, holding out an iced latte:

"Why aren't you answering my messages?"

I checked my phone. An iMessage from two hours ago:

**[What kind of milk do you take in your coffee?]**

Meanwhile, Sarah had just posted on Instagram—more than a dozen coffee cups spread across her desk, captioned:

**[Eric's such a dummy—didn't know what I liked so he ordered one of EVERYTHING. I'm gonna turn into a little piggy! He spilled one though, what a waste 🥺]**

I looked at the coffee stain on the rim of the cup in front of me and pushed it straight into the trash. "Sorry. I'm lactose intolerant."

Eric blinked, frowning. "Since when?"

"Always."

"Sorry. I forgot."

Silence stretched between us. Eric shifted uncomfortably for a long moment before speaking again:

"…Harper, that project you've been leading for three years—could you hand it off to Sarah? Let her get some practice?"

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