Carter's POV
I had just stepped out of a meeting when I saw her. Emily. Seven years later, standing in the reception area of my office like she belonged. She hadn't changed much—still the same sharp cheekbones, the red lipstick a little too perfect, her arms folded like she was always waiting to be right about something.
My assistant looked flustered. "Mr. West, she said you two knew each other from...before."
Before. That was one word for it.
"It's alright," I told her, though my stomach coiled. "I'll take it from here."
Emily smiled. "Hey, Carter."
"Emily," I said slowly, trying to read the undercurrent in her voice.
She followed me into my office like she had a right to. I didn't offer her a seat, but she sat anyway.
"I didn't come to fight," she said. "I just... I didn't know where else to go. I heard you're working for a publishing house now. You're doing well."
"What do you want?" I asked. Not unkindly. Just tired.
"I want to talk," she said. "I've been in therapy. and I missed you"
I didn't say anything. I let the silence do the talking.
"I was married, you know. For a while," she added. "His name was Eric. Controlling. Jealous. It started slow. Then the drinking. Then the bruises. I thought I could handle it. Thought it was karma or something."
My jaw clenched. "I'm sorry that happened to you."
She nodded, grateful for the drop of compassion. "After everything I did to you... Maybe I thought I deserved it."
"You didn't," I said. Not for me, for her. "But that doesn't mean I forget the things you did either."
"I know," she whispered. "I treated you like crap. I abandoned you when you needed me most. God, Carter, I still think about that day—when you told me about the drugs and I just... walked away."
"You were honest with me," she continued, her voice dropping. "You needed help, and I abandoned you. Then I made everything worse."
I felt the old anger creeping up. "You didn't just abandon me, Emily. You told everyone. Made me into some kind of joke."
She flinched. "I know. I was cruel. I was scared and immature, and I lashed out. All those things I said about you and your mom..."
"'Like mother, like son,'" I quoted flatly. "Your exact words in the hallway."
Emily's eyes filled with tears. "I was horrible. I know that. I knew how much you struggled with your mom's addiction, and I threw it back in your face when you admitted you were using too."
"Why?" I asked the question that had haunted me for years. "Why did you do it?"
She looked down at her hands. "I was scared. My parents had just divorced because of my dad's drinking. I thought I was finally escaping that life, and then you told me you were using, and all I could see was history repeating itself. I was terrified of caring about someone who might destroy themselves."
"So you destroyed me instead."
"Yes," she admitted quietly. "I did. And there's no excuse for it."
I stared at her, trying to find the girl who'd once made me feel safe, before she'd made me feel worthless. Before the whispers in the hallway, the snide comments about addiction running in the family, the nights I'd spent alone, wondering if anyone would ever look at me and see more than my mistakes.
"I just want a chance to explain. Maybe not to get back together. Just... be friends, maybe?"
That's when I realized something. She wasn't here for closure. She was here because she had nowhere else to go. The way her eyes darted around my office, assessing what I'd built without her, the careful way she framed her apology—she wasn't just sorry. She was adrift.
"I'm not the same guy," I told her. "And this isn't a second chance."
She blinked fast. "I didn't expect anything. I swear."
But there was something in her eyes that suggested otherwise. A hint of the old Emily—the one who'd made grand gestures after hurting me, before she'd decided I wasn't worth saving.
She stood, adjusting her purse strap. "Okay. I get it. But... if you ever want to talk, I'm staying at the Maxwell downtown. Room 703."
I didn't answer. I just opened the door and let her walk out first.
I didn't see Emily the next day. Or the day after. But her shadow lingered on my desk, in the familiar perfume I thought I'd forgotten. I buried myself in case files, drank too much coffee, and ignored the bookstore on 6th Avenue every time I passed it.
But it wasn't Emily I was trying to forget. It was the other one. The one who showed me her sketchbook like it were a diary. The one who made me feel, quietly.
On the fifth night after Emily showed up, I found myself in the park behind the office. A habit I'd picked up back in the worst years. Still helped me breathe. I watched the fountain, the kids running past, the moonlight stretching long and gold over the pavement.
And I thought of her. Not Emily. Aishwariya.
Some days later, Olivia called. She always knew when something was off.
"You sound tense," she said as soon as I answered.
"I had a visitor at work."
"Who?"
"Emily," I told her.
She went silent for a moment, then: "Emily? Are you serious?"
I flinched. Even now, the memory stung—Emily's face when I'd finally admitted I had a problem years ago, her eyes wide with shock, then narrowing with something colder. Not concerned. Not compassion. Just judgment.
"What did she want?" Olivia asked carefully.
"I think my forgiveness," I told her.
"And are you going to give it to her?"
"I'm still angry," I admitted. "Seven years later, and I'm still furious with her."
"You have every right to be," Olivia said firmly. "She didn't just leave you when you needed support most—she made sure your reputation was destroyed in the process."
I couldn't argue. Not really. The facts were clear
"It was a long time ago," I said, more to myself than to her.
"Not long enough for you to forget how she left you," Olivia countered. "You were a ghost, Carter. Remember? You couldn't even look people in the eye."
I did remember. The shame had been crushing—worse, in some ways, than the addiction itself. Everyone is looking at me differently. Whispers behind my back. My future is evaporating overnight.
"I don't want anything to do with her," I said, the anger rising again. "That's why I need to focus on something new. Someone new."
"I'm glad," Olivia said, studying me. "But I can still hear you're conflicted. Part of you wants to confront her about what she did."
I ran my fingers along the edge of the table, trying to find the right words. "She said her husband abused her."
Olivia's expression softened slightly. "No one deserves that." She paused. "But her trauma doesn't erase what she did to you. And it doesn't mean you have to be the one to save her."
"I'm not trying to save anyone," I said, but the words felt hollow.
"Good," she said firmly. "Because Emily isn't your responsibility."
The words hit hard. I'd spent years in therapy untangling that particular knot—my need to rescue others while my own life fell apart. It had been part of what drew me to Emily in the first place. Her chaos. Her damage disguised as strength.
I thought about Emily in my office, the way her eyes had scanned everything, taking inventory, looking for leverage. Something about it didn't sit right.
"People like Emily... they know which buttons to push," Olivia continued. "They remember your weak spots."
"She said she's changed. That she's been in therapy."
"Maybe she has." Olivia didn't sound convinced. "But that doesn't mean you owe her a place in your life."
I nodded, grateful for Olivia's unwavering support. She'd been there through the worst of it—the rehab, the rumor mill, the slow, painful rebuilding of my career and my confidence.
"So tell me about Aishwariya," she said, clearly trying to shift the conversation to something more positive. "When are you seeing her again?"
"I haven't connected with her for three weeks," I admitted. "I've been hesitant to reach out."
"Why?" Olivia asked, leaning forward. "You seemed interested in her before."
Sebastian appeared in the doorway, his conference call apparently finished. He took one look at our faces and raised an eyebrow.
"Everything okay?"
"Carter isn't calling Aishwariya even though he clearly likes her," Olivia explained, a hint of exasperation in her voice.
Sebastian's face broke into a smile. "The one with the sketchbook?"
I rolled my eyes. "Don't you two have anything better to talk about than my love life?"
"Not really," Sebastian said cheerfully, sliding back into his seat.
Before I could answer, my phone buzzed. Emily's name flashed on the screen.
Both Olivia and Sebastian saw it. The mood in the room changed instantly.
"Don't answer it," Olivia said, her voice low.
I stared at the screen, anger and curiosity warring within me. "I should at least hear what she has to say."
"Why?" Sebastian asked, surprisingly firm. "What could she possibly say that would change anything now?"
He had a point. But seven years of unanswered questions had created a vacuum that was hard to ignore. I let the call go to voicemail.
"Good choice," Olivia said, but I could hear the concern lingering in her voice.
"She'll just keep calling," I said, setting the phone face-down on the table.
"Then block her number," Sebastian suggested. "You don't need to revisit old wounds."
I nodded, but didn't reach for the phone. A part of me wasn't ready to cut that final tie—not out of any desire to reconnect, but because the anger I still carried deserved a voice. Deserved to be heard.
"I might need to talk to her," I said slowly. "Not because I want her back. But because I need her to understand what she did."
Olivia and Sebastian exchanged a look.
"That's a dangerous game," Olivia warned. "Confronting her might just give her another opportunity to manipulate the situation."
"Or it might give me the chance to finally say what I needed to say seven years ago."
"I mean it, Carter. She's not safe," Olivia said, setting her wine down. "People don't just walk back into your life after seven years unless they want something."
"I'm serious. You don't owe her anything. Not kindness. Not a conversation. Definitely not another piece of yourself." She took a breath. "Have you thought about what happened after she outed you to the whole school? How many people stood by you then?"
"Not many," I admitted. "You did. A few others."
"And where was she when you were going through withdrawal? When were you fighting to get clean? When you were putting yourself through Rehab?"
"I know, Liv."
"She broke something in you, Carter. I watched it happen. You were so ashamed, so convinced you were worthless. It took years for you to believe in yourself again."
"People change," I said, not even sure why I was defending her.
"Yes, they do. You changed. But change doesn't erase consequences." She sighed. "What happened to the guy who left her behind and chose himself instead?"
"I think he's just tired," I said. "And kind of lonely."
The next morning, I found myself downtown. Not planning to go anywhere specific. Just walking. Thinking about high school. About Emily's tears in my office. About how easy it would be to call her, to hear her out, to slip back into the familiarity of our history.
I ended up outside the Maxwell. Staring up at the imposing building. Room 703, she'd said. Seven floors up. A small distance, really. I could go there now. Listen to her apologies. Maybe even forgive her.
But as I stood there, hands in my pockets, I remembered her voice in the hallway. Like mother, like son. The shame on my classmates' faces when they looked at me. The nights I'd spent alone, convinced I was broken beyond repair.
And I remembered something else. The night I'd met Aishwariya at that wedding. How she'd looked at me across the room—not with judgment or expectation, but with simple curiosity. How she'd asked what I was reading, not who I was or what I did. The way she'd sketched my hands without trying to hold them.
I pulled out my phone and found her number. I'd messaged her, though I'd wanted to. I'd been afraid of wanting anything too much.
Hey, would you like to meet up sometime this week? There's an exhibition at the gallery on Fifth that I think you'd love. Your drawings reminded me of the artist's style.
I waited and waited for her message
Okay, will meet at 4:30
I smiled seeing her message
Later, I would tell her about Emily. About high school. About how we met 7 years ago on the rooftop of the Rehab, how she saw the world in ways that made me want to look harder, deeper. How I'd found myself standing outside my ex's hotel, only to realize I was chasing ghosts when what I really wanted was something real.
But for now, I just walked back to my office, feeling lighter than I had in weeks. I didn't owe Emily anything—not forgiveness, not conversation, not a single moment of my time. Maybe she had changed. Maybe she was genuinely sorry. But that didn't mean I had to be the one to heal her. I'd spent too many years healing myself.
Sometimes the bravest thing isn't confronting your past. Sometimes it's simply letting it go.
And as for Emily? She was right about one thing. I had built something good for myself. A life that didn't include her. And I wasn't going to let her walk back into it now, seven years too late, looking for absolution I couldn't give.
Some ghosts aren't meant to be exorcised. They're meant to be left behind.