Jenna's POV
The next four days became a blur of coffee, client calls, and three hours of sleep per night.
I arrived at Morrison Marketing's office at six AM and left after midnight. My team watched me with worried eyes but didn't say anything—they knew our survival depended on hitting impossible targets.
You need to eat, James said Tuesday afternoon, finding me at my desk surrounded by empty coffee cups and untouched takeout containers.
I'll eat later, I lied, eyes burning as I reviewed another pitch deck.
He left the container anyway. It sat on my desk, getting cold while I made calls to potential clients who mostly said no.
By Wednesday, I'd lost three pounds I couldn't afford to lose. My reflection in the bathroom mirror showed dark circles no amount of concealer could hide and a woman running on fumes and desperation.
But I'd also secured two new clients. Small ones—$8,000 quarterly combined—but something.
Not enough. Never enough.
Thursday morning, I was deep into cold calls when my assistant Sarah knocked hesitantly.
Jenna? There's a delivery for you.
I looked up, confused. I didn't order anything.
It's lunch. From Marcello's.
Marcello's. The Italian place three blocks away that I loved but never had time to visit anymore.
A bag sat on Sarah's desk—pasta primavera, breadsticks, the works. My stomach growled traitorously.
Who sent it? I asked.
Sarah shrugged. The delivery guy said it was anonymous. Someone called it in and paid over the phone.
Maya, probably. She'd been texting me constantly, worried I was working myself to death.
Thank her for me, I said, grabbing the bag. I'll eat while I work.
The pasta was still hot, perfectly prepared. I ate mechanically while reviewing contracts, barely tasting it but grateful for the fuel.
Friday, another delivery arrived. This time, a sandwich from the deli I used to love. Again, anonymous.
Your mystery benefactor has good taste, Sarah said with a smile.
I ate it without thinking much about it. Probably Maya coordinating with my staff to make sure I didn't starve.
The work consumed everything. Client presentations. Pitch decks. Networking emails sent at two AM. My world narrowed to revenue targets and impossible deadlines.
I didn't have energy to think about Marcus's texts—which had stopped after Monday, thank God. Didn't have time to obsess over tomorrow night's charity gala where I'd watch Kieran with Victoria.
Just work. Endless, exhausting work.
Kieran's POV
I told myself I was monitoring Morrison Marketing's security footage for legitimate business reasons.
Making sure Jenna's team was actually working. Ensuring company resources weren't being wasted. Standard oversight for an acquired subsidiary.
All lies.
The truth was, I couldn't stop watching her.
Tuesday night, I sat in my penthouse office at eleven PM, security feed from Morrison Marketing's office pulled up on my laptop. Jenna was still at her desk, hunched over her computer, fourth cup of coffee in hand.
She looked exhausted. Fragile. Like she might shatter at any moment.
You should go home, I muttered to the screen, even though she couldn't hear me.
She didn't. She worked until one AM, then finally gathered her things with movements that looked like they hurt.
I watched her walk to her car, making sure she got in safely. Only then did I close my laptop.
Wednesday, same thing. Except this time, I noticed the uneaten takeout containers piling up on her desk.
She wasn't eating. Just surviving on coffee and adrenaline.
The observation triggered something protective I thought I'd buried. Something that made me pick up my phone and call Marcello's before I could think better of it.
I need a delivery, I said. To Morrison Marketing in Brooklyn. Pasta primavera, breadsticks, full order. Don't include a name—tell them it's anonymous.
I hung up before I could change my mind.
Then I watched the security feed Thursday afternoon as the delivery arrived. Watched Jenna's confusion, then gratitude. Watched her eat while working, never knowing I'd sent it.
This doesn't mean anything, I told myself. I'm just protecting my investment. Can't have her collapsing before the six months are up.
More lies.
Thursday night, I found myself doing it again. Ordering from the deli she used to love, making sure it was delivered anonymously.
Watching her eat while working, relieved she was getting some nutrition.
You're pathetic, I told myself. You're supposed to be destroying her.
But I couldn't seem to stop.
Friday night—the night before the gala—I was still in my office at midnight when Daniel walked in without knocking.
Go home, Kieran. You've been here for eighteen hours.
I have work, I said, not looking up from the Morrison Marketing security feed on my screen.
Daniel moved closer, saw what I was watching, and sighed heavily.
You're watching her again.
I'm monitoring company assets.
You're obsessing over your ex-fiancée. He pulled up a chair uninvited. The woman you claim to hate. The woman you're supposedly destroying.
I am destroying her, I said coldly. The revenue targets are impossible. She's failing. In six months, Morrison Marketing will be liquidated exactly as planned.
Then why are you making sure she eats lunch?
My jaw clenched. I don't know what you're talking about.
Kieran. Daniel's voice was gentle. Pitying. I've known you for fifteen years. I know when you're lying. And I know when you're still in love with someone.
I'm not—
You watch her security feed every night. You send her anonymous food deliveries. You called off a board meeting Tuesday because it conflicted with her weekly progress report. He leaned forward. You're not destroying her. You're torturing yourself.
I wanted to argue. To insist he was wrong.
But the evidence was damning.
She destroyed me first, I said quietly.
I know. I was there. I held you together after she left. Daniel's expression softened. But this revenge plan isn't giving you closure. It's keeping you trapped in the past.
What else am I supposed to do? The words came out harsher than intended. Forgive her? Pretend the past five years didn't happen?
Talk to her. Actually talk. Ask her why she left.
I've tried. She won't tell me.
Then make her tell you. Daniel stood, heading for the door. Or let her go. But this middle ground—destroying her while simultaneously protecting her—it's destroying you instead.
He left me alone with my thoughts and the security feed.
On screen, Jenna was still working. Almost one AM on a Friday night, and she was reviewing client contracts with red-rimmed eyes.
Tomorrow, she'd attend the charity gala. Would watch me with Victoria. Would smile politely while her world fell apart.
Just like I'd planned.
So why did the thought make me feel sick?
Jenna's POV
I finally left the office at one-thirty AM.
The streets were empty, Brooklyn quiet except for distant sirens. I drove home on autopilot, too exhausted to think.
My apartment felt cold when I walked in. Empty.
I collapsed on my couch without changing clothes, setting my alarm for six AM. Three and a half hours of sleep, then back to work.
My phone buzzed. A text from Maya:
Please tell me you're sleeping and not still working. The gala is tomorrow night. You need rest.
The gala. I'd been trying not to think about it.
Another text arrived before I could respond:
I bought you a dress. Black, elegant, armor-worthy. Picking you up at 8 PM tomorrow. No arguments.
I smiled despite my exhaustion. Maya, always taking care of me.
A third text:
And Jenna? Whatever happens tomorrow night—Victoria, Kieran, all of it—remember you're stronger than you think. You've survived worse.
Tears burned behind my eyes. Had I survived worse?
Five years ago, I'd believed I was dying. That pain had been sharp, immediate, terrifying.
But this? Watching Kieran hate me while I still loved him? Working myself to death on impossible targets? Knowing I'd destroyed the best thing in my life?
This was a different kind of dying. Slower. More painful.
My phone buzzed again. Unknown number.
My heart stopped. Marcus.
But when I opened the message, it wasn't from Marcus.
Get some sleep. You'll need your strength tomorrow night.
-K
Kieran.
Using a private number again. Reminding me that even at one-thirty AM, he was thinking about me.
About destroying me.
Or... was he?
I thought about the anonymous lunch deliveries. The food from places I loved. The timing—always when I was too busy to eat.
Maya wouldn't know my favorite dishes from Marcello's. My team wouldn't know about the deli.
But Kieran would.
No, I told myself firmly. That's insane. He hates you. He's not secretly taking care of you.
Except...
I pulled up the security app for Morrison Marketing's office. We had cameras installed six months ago after a break-in.
And if we had cameras, Ashford Industries definitely had access to our feeds now.
Which meant Kieran could watch our office anytime he wanted.
Could see me working late. Skipping meals. Running myself into the ground.
Could see exactly how much his revenge was destroying me.
Is that what you're doing? I wondered, staring at my phone. Watching me suffer? Making sure I'm breaking exactly the way you planned?
Or was something else happening? Something neither of us was ready to admit?
Another text arrived:
Tomorrow night, you'll meet Victoria properly. She's looking forward to it. So am I.
The words were designed to hurt. To remind me he'd moved on.
But something felt off. Wrong.
Like he was trying too hard to convince me. Or himself.
I set my phone down and closed my eyes, too exhausted to analyze Kieran's motivations.
Tomorrow night, I'd find out exactly where we stood.
Tomorrow night, I'd watch him with another woman and finally accept that what we had was dead.
That revenge was all we had left.
My phone buzzed one final time. I almost ignored it.
But curiosity made me look.
A photo. Taken from across the street. Of my apartment building.
My bedroom window.
With the lights on.
And a message:
Sleep well, Jenna. Sweet dreams.
-M
Marcus.
He was outside my building right now. Watching my window. Taking photographs.
Terror flooded through me, sharp and immediate.
I lunged for my windows, yanking curtains closed. Checked every lock. Grabbed my phone with shaking hands.
Should I call 911? The police? Maya?
What would I even say? Someone sent me a photo of my building?
My phone rang. Unknown number.
I stared at it, heart hammering. Marcus. It had to be Marcus.
The ringing stopped. Voicemail notification.
I played it with trembling fingers.
Heavy breathing. Then Marcus's voice, soft and poisonous:
You're not safe, Jenna. Not from him. Not from yourself. But I can protect you. I can save you again, the way I saved you before. You just have to let me.
The message ended.
I sat frozen on my couch, every light in my apartment blazing, curtains drawn tight.
Marcus was escalating. Getting bolder. More dangerous.
And tomorrow night, I had to stand in a room full of people and pretend everything was fine.
Had to watch Kieran with Victoria and survive it.
Had to keep fighting for my company while Marcus stalked me.
I pulled up my phone and did something I'd sworn I wouldn't do.
Called Kieran's private number—the one he'd texted me from.
It rang once. Twice. Three times.
Jenna? His voice was sharp, alert despite the late hour. What's wrong?
The concern in his tone almost broke me.
I My voice cracked. I need to tell you something. About why I left. About everything.
Silence. Then, quietly, I'm listening.
And finally—finally—I was ready to tell him the truth.