Chapter 16
1131 Words
The Weight of Staying
Bea used to believe that staying was strength.
That walking away was weakness disguised as self respect. That people who left simply could not endure what others could. She had told herself that so many times it had become a truth she carried without question.
Stay. Endure. Survive.
That had been her life’s rhythm ever since everything collapsed.
But lately, the weight of staying had begun to feel heavier than the fear of leaving.
She noticed it in small things first.
In the way her chest tightened every morning before stepping into the Monteverde Group Tower. In the way her shoulders remained tense long after she sat down at her desk. In the way her mind never truly rested, even during moments of silence.
The building had not changed.
Still glass. Still steel. Still intimidating.
But she had.
She sat at her desk early that morning, fingers wrapped around a cup of coffee that had long gone cold. The executive floor was quiet, the hum of the air conditioning the only sound keeping her company.
Ace’s office door was closed.
She did not know whether that brought relief or dread.
For the first time since she started working here, she no longer waited for the intercom to click. She no longer flinched at every sound, no longer straightened her posture in anticipation.
Not because she had grown numb.
But because something inside her had shifted.
She was tired.
Tired of living her days on emotional edge. Tired of being tested. Tired of feeling like her worth was measured by how much she could endure without breaking.
Her phone vibrated softly on the desk.
A message from Adrian.
Good morning. I hope today is lighter than yesterday.
The words were simple. No pressure. No demand.
Just care.
Bea stared at the screen longer than necessary.
She did not respond immediately.
Not because she did not want to.
But because she was afraid of how easy it felt to breathe when she read his messages.
She set the phone face down and focused on her screen, forcing herself back into routine. Emails. Calendar updates. Meeting confirmations.
Work still grounded her.
At ten sharp, the elevator doors opened and a familiar presence filled the floor.
Ace stepped out, voice already low and authoritative as he spoke to someone on the phone. He ended the call without glancing at her and walked into his office.
The door closed.
No comment. No order.
Bea watched the door for a second longer than she meant to.
There was a time when silence from him felt like punishment.
Now, it felt like distance.
And distance felt like possibility.
She returned to her work.
By noon, she had completed everything on his schedule. She delivered the updated reports to his desk when his door finally opened again.
He looked up as she entered.
Their eyes met.
The air shifted instantly.
“Leave it there,” he said.
She placed the folder on his desk and turned to go.
“Bea.”
He said her name quietly, without title, without sharpness.
She paused.
“Yes, sir?”
He studied her face like he was trying to find something he had misplaced. “You’ve been different.”
She did not deny it. “People change.”
His jaw tightened. “Not usually this suddenly.”
She met his gaze. “Sometimes change happens quietly.”
The words were calm, but they carried weight.
Ace stood, moving slowly around the desk. “You think I don’t notice when something shifts in my environment?”
“I’m not an object,” she said before she could stop herself.
Silence fell.
Heavy. Charged.
Ace stopped a few steps away from her. “No,” he said slowly. “You’re not.”
The admission unsettled her more than denial would have.
“Then stop treating me like one,” she said softly.
The words were not sharp. They were tired.
Ace’s eyes darkened, something unreadable passing through them. “You’re asking for something you don’t understand.”
Bea’s chest tightened. “I understand more than you think.”
He leaned one hand on the desk beside her, not trapping her, but close enough that she felt the familiar pressure of his presence.
“You want distance,” he said quietly. “But you still stand here.”
“I stand here because it’s my job,” she replied. “Not because I want to.”
That truth landed hard.
Ace straightened slowly, his expression closing again. “Then perhaps you should reconsider why you’re here.”
Bea’s heart pounded.
She had imagined this moment before. The threat. The suggestion that leaving was an option.
She had never expected him to be the one to bring it up.
“Perhaps I already am,” she said.
The silence that followed felt fragile.
Ace looked at her like she had just stepped onto unfamiliar ground. “You think leaving will make things easier?”
“I think staying is making things harder,” she said honestly.
He searched her face for hesitation.
He did not find it.
“Go back to work,” he said finally.
She nodded and left his office, her pulse racing.
Outside, she sat down slowly, hands trembling just slightly.
She had said it.
Not as a threat.
Not as defiance.
As truth.
At lunch, she met Adrian again.
This time, she did not pretend it was coincidence.
They walked instead of sitting, the city noise grounding her in a way the office never did. She told him nothing about Ace. Nothing about the tension or the conversation.
She talked about herself.
About her parents. About the pressure of rebuilding a life that once felt complete. About how exhausting it was to always be strong.
Adrian listened.
Not once did he interrupt.
“You don’t owe loyalty to pain,” he said gently. “You owe yourself peace.”
The words stayed with her long after they parted.
When Bea returned to the office that afternoon, she felt lighter.
Not because her problems were solved.
But because she was beginning to believe she had choices.
Ace noticed.
He noticed the steadiness in her movements. The calm in her expression. The absence of tension he once relied on to feel in control.
That evening, when she gathered her things and prepared to leave, she did not glance at his door.
She did not wait.
Inside his office, Ace watched her reflection disappear in the glass.
And for the first time, the silence did not feel like control.
It felt like loss approaching.
He clenched his jaw.
Because he was beginning to understand something far too late.
Endurance had kept her there.
But clarity might be what finally took her away.
- Writer
