He didn't wait until Monday.
At 7:14 Sunday evening, her building's intercom buzzed. She already knew who it was before the doorman's voice came through the speaker.
"A Mr. Cross in the lobby, Ms. Walsh. He says it's urgent."
Of course he did.
She considered sending him away. She had prepared for Monday — her office, her turf, her terms. This was not part of the plan.
But she also knew Damien Cross. He had not built a billion-dollar company by accepting the word "Monday" when he wanted answers today.
"Send him up," she said.
She didn't rush. She closed her laptop, straightened the cushions on the sofa, and stood by the window. When the knock came, she waited three full seconds before opening the door.
He looked like a man who had spent the day being very controlled about something that was costing him a great deal of effort to control.
His tie was loosened. That was the only visible crack. Everything else — the jaw, the shoulders, the dark eyes — was locked down tight.
He looked at her for a long moment without speaking.
"Come in," she said.
He stepped inside. His eyes moved around the apartment — taking in the clean lines, the bookshelves, the single framed photograph on the wall — and she watched him process it. Looking for traces of her. Looking for the woman from the article.
"Sit down, Damien," she said.
He turned at the sound of his first name. She had not used it once in three weeks.
He sat.
She remained standing.
"How long?" he asked. His voice was very quiet.
"From the beginning," she said. "I signed the divorce papers and the acquisition contract the same morning."
Something moved through his expression. "You planned this."
"I planned the acquisition. The timing was — convenient."
"Convenient." He exhaled slowly. "Nora. Clara. What do I even call you?"
"Nora," she said. "Clara doesn't exist anymore. You made sure of that."
The words landed. She watched them land. She had not meant them to be cruel — they were simply true — but she saw the way his jaw tightened, the way his eyes dropped for just a moment to the floor.
"I didn't know," he said. "About NovaTech. About any of it."
"I know you didn't."
"Why didn't you tell me? During the marriage. During the acquisition. At any point, why didn't you —"
"Because you told me I didn't belong in your world," she said simply. "I decided to build my own."
Silence.
He looked at her — really looked at her — and she stood still and let him.
"You're extraordinary," he said quietly. It didn't sound like a compliment. It sounded like a man confronting something he had failed to see when it was right in front of him.
"Yes," she agreed. "I am."
He stood up. For a moment she thought he might say something more — something that would crack through her armor and make this complicated. Instead he walked to the door.
"Monday," he said. "Nine o'clock."
"I'll be there," she said.
He left.
She locked the door, leaned her back against it, and let out a long, slow breath.
Round one. Done.