Chapter 9
971words
Heavy curtains blocked the city's noise, leaving only harsh overhead lights that exposed every line of exhaustion on Sullivan Sinclair's face.
Cherry sat opposite him, the massive ebony desk between them like an unbridgeable canyon.
She signed the final implementation plan for the eastern district project, her pen scratching across paper—the only sound in the room. Her movements were fluid and precise, betraying no hint that days ago she'd been led away in handcuffs.
The police had officially cleared Cherry of all charges, announcing that Victoria Skye was now under investigation for filing a false report and identity fraud.
Public opinion had swiftly reversed under Sinclair Corp's PR guidance. Cherry's image transformed from "vengeful mistress" to "victim of workplace conspiracy" and "brilliant executive unfairly targeted."
But some things, once shattered, could never be restored.
Sullivan studied her. Today she wore a dark green silk blouse that made her skin appear alabaster-cold. Her eyes were calm and fathomless—like a frozen lake in winter.
The warm adoration that had once been his was gone without a trace.
"I'll personally oversee the preliminary work to ensure smooth transition," Cherry closed the folder, her tone clinically professional. "If there's nothing else, President Sinclair, I'll return to work."
She stood to leave.
"Cherry!" Sullivan shot to his feet, his voice rough with urgency.
He circled the desk and approached her, searching her eyes for any trace of their past, finding only glacial detachment.
"Can we talk?" he asked with difficulty, his usual control completely abandoned, leaving only the awkward desperation of a man trying to salvage ruins.
"About what?" Cherry stopped, tilting her head with mocking curiosity. "Business? We just covered that. Personal matters?" She paused, her lips curving into a smile that never reached her eyes. "Do we still have personal matters, Sullivan?"
"I know I was… terribly wrong." Sullivan took a deep breath, his heart constricting as if bathed in acid. "I shouldn't have doubted you. I was deceived by her, by that child that never existed…"
"Child?" Cherry's soft laugh cut like a blade. "Sullivan Sinclair, do you still think this is about that 'child'?"
She stepped closer, her gaze razor-sharp. "The issue is that you never trusted me. For ten years, I followed you like a lovesick puppy, thinking someday you'd finally see me. And what happened? Some woman appears with a flimsy story, and you throw me to the wolves without a second thought—to the police, to public humiliation!"
Her voice remained controlled, but each word struck his heart like an ice pick.
"That's not it, Cherry, I was just…" Sullivan tried to defend himself, but words failed him in the face of such profound betrayal.
He'd been blinded by supposed "facts" and the shock of losing his child. Perhaps, on a deeper level, he'd never truly appreciated Cherry's strength—or her place in his heart.
"Only what?" Cherry cut him off, a crack appearing in her icy facade, raw emotion threatening to break through before she ruthlessly suppressed it. "Sullivan Sinclair, the moment you let go of my hand at that altar, you died to me."
Her words fell like a death sentence. Sullivan's face drained of color as he staggered back.
"No…" he whispered, his eyes bloodshot with regret. "Give me one more chance, Cherry. Let's start over, forget Victoria, forget everything… just like before…"
"Before?" Cherry reacted as if he'd told the world's most absurd joke. She slowly raised her left hand, opening her palm before him.
The scar had healed into a twisted pink line—like a serpent crawling across what had once been smooth skin.
Sullivan's gaze locked on the scar, his heart seizing. He remembered—this was from the ring he'd placed on her finger at their wedding.
"Do you see it?" Cherry's soft voice carried the weight of mountains. "This is what you left me. It reminds me every day of those wasted ten years and my humiliation. It's a thorn in my flesh, in my heart—impossible to remove, impossible to forget."
Her fingertip traced the scar with almost cruel tenderness.
"How can I forget? How can I start over?" She raised her eyes to his, the last flicker of emotion fading to cold resolution. "Sullivan Sinclair, what we had died long ago. From now on, you're the CEO, I'm the VP. Nothing more."
She lowered her hand, the scar now part of her—a source of strength rather than weakness.
"If you find working together impossible, I can resign. Of course," she paused, her tone razor-sharp, "per our agreement, what's mine remains mine—to the last penny."
Without another glance at his pale face or the devastation in his eyes, she turned, opened the door, and walked out.
The door closed softly, dividing two worlds.
Sullivan collapsed onto the sofa, burying his face in his hands. Cherry's words and that angry scar haunted him like a nightmare on endless repeat.
He finally understood that he'd lost more than Cherry's love—he'd lost her trust and their future. That wound hadn't just marked her palm; it had severed all possibility between them.
Regret crashed over him like a tsunami, threatening to drown him.
Meanwhile, Cherry leaned against the cold hallway wall and closed her eyes.
She forced her emotions back into the depths of her heart. When her eyes opened, they held only the hardness of steel tempered in fire.
The wound on her palm remained.
But from now on, it would no longer be a mark of humiliation.
It was her medal of honor, her declaration of independence, her permanent reminder as she forged ahead.
She straightened her spine and walked steadily toward the elevator—toward a battlefield that was hers alone, where she would stand or fall by her own strength.
