(Amelia's POV)
Closeness doesn't announce itself.
It doesn't knock or warn or ask permission. It finds small ways in. A shared ride, a late email, a meeting that runs a little too long. You tell yourself it's practical. Necessary. That's how it began—with reasons that sounded harmless.
Ethan didn't become unavoidable through choice. It was the structure. The logistics. Shared projects. Morning briefings that bled into afternoons. Conversations that started with clauses and ended in silence that lasted too long to be professional.
By then, it had already changed my breathing.
The amendment sat between us like a confession written by someone who wanted to ruin equilibrium. I hadn't slept much since the meeting. Every time I closed my eyes, I saw my own name, my own handwriting, anchoring a document I didn't remember signing.
The woman behind that signature had believed in a kind of loyalty that could survive compromise. She had been wrong.
By morning, exhaustion had turned to resolve. I reminded myself that ink was not memory. That paper couldn't rewrite the reason I left.
When I stepped outside the hotel, Ethan was already there, leaning against his car. He didn't speak until I reached him.
"Legal wants us both," he said.
I nodded, too tired to argue.
He opened the door. The drive was quiet except for the rhythm of rain on glass. Toronto blurred by, gray and reflective, the kind of city that didn't care what it remembered.
The boardroom waited—glass, light, too many eyes pretending neutrality. The amendment was projected on the wall, my name larger than life. I looked at it and felt both exposed and distant, like watching someone else's mistake.
"That amendment was never enacted," I said finally. "It establishes intent, not obligation."
One of the legal advisors adjusted his glasses. "Technically correct. It was drafted as part of early-stage negotiations."
Ethan's voice cut through the room. "Negotiations she led."
"Yes," I said, meeting his eyes. "Before I understood what staying would cost."
The silence that followed wasn't judgmental. It was worse. It was quiet curiosity, the kind that looked for fault in emotion instead of logic.
"This suggests you didn't leave without imagining a future here," another advisor said carefully.
"Imagining isn't the same as agreeing," I replied, standing.
The chair's scrape echoed. For a moment, no one spoke. Then someone from compliance suggested what I had been dreading.
"Given the document's implications, we recommend ongoing cooperation. Close oversight. Continued proximity until this is fully resolved."
Proximity. The word landed like a trap.
By noon, my office had moved.
Ethan didn't even try to disguise it as coincidence. The new workspace was on the executive floor, one corridor away from his. The walls were warmer here, the windows wider, the furniture chosen for conversation instead of solitude.
"This isn't necessary," I said.
"It is," he replied. "You'll need immediate access."
"I don't need oversight."
He paused. "You never did."
Something about the way he said it—soft, remembering—caught me off guard. I turned away, pretending not to hear what he meant.
Work filled the rest of the day, merciful in its precision. The Kingston deal demanded clarity. Ethan and I argued through strategy, numbers, projections. Every disagreement sharpened the next solution. Every solution blurred a line we shouldn't have crossed.
By late afternoon, he leaned against my desk, watching me type.
"You're not as guarded as you think," he said.
I didn't look up. "I'm doing my job."
"You're doing more than that."
I pushed back my chair, keeping my voice even. "Proximity doesn't equal permission."
He smiled faintly. "No. But it removes distance."
That smile—the one that used to disarm boardrooms and ruin restraint—hit too close. I stood, gathering papers I didn't need to move.
"Then maybe distance was smarter."
He didn't argue. He didn't have to. The silence filled in the rest.
Dinner came later, an obligation disguised as diplomacy. The table was elegant, the lighting too forgiving. Conversations flowed around us, polite and superficial.
Investors, executives, small talk wrapped in glass and linen. Someone from the far end of the table laughed.
"You two were always formidable together," they said. "Some partnerships don't lose their rhythm."
I felt Ethan's gaze before I met it. Beneath the table, his hand brushed against mine. The contact was brief, probably accidental, but my pulse didn't care.
I pulled away, fingers curling against my knee.
He noticed. Of course he did.
The dinner ended without real food or real resolution. In the elevator afterward, the quiet pressed in again. I could feel the hum of the cables, the faint scent of his cologne, the awareness of how little space existed between us.
"This is what I meant," he said finally. "Dangerous proximity."
"Then step away," I said.
His mouth tilted slightly. "You first."
The doors opened on the lobby floor. Neither of us moved.
My phone buzzed in my bag, breaking the standoff. Mrs. Patel's name flashed on the screen.
"Lucas wants you," she said gently when I answered. "He's asking for home."
Something in my chest tightened. "I'm coming."
When I ended the call, Ethan was watching me. There was no calculation this time, only concern.
"Go," he said quietly.
I hesitated, waiting for him to make it an argument. He didn't. He just nodded once, the way people do when they've learned the limits of what they can demand.
I stepped out of the elevator, heels clicking against marble. Behind me, the doors closed.
I didn't turn around.
The city air felt heavy, humid from rain, the kind of night that sticks to your skin. I walked fast, needing motion to outrun thought.
Lucas's face filled my mind—his small, tired smile, the quiet resilience I didn't deserve to lean on. He was the reason I had learned to rebuild. To stay steady even when the ground shifted.
And yet, something about today's unraveling told me that the foundation I'd built wasn't as solid as I believed.
Ethan had once said control was safety. I had believed distance was.
Now both were breaking down at the same time.
Back at the hotel, I dropped my bag on the bed and sank into the nearest chair. My reflection in the window looked like someone caught between two lives—one built from survival, the other from unfinished business.
I pressed a hand to my chest, trying to steady the uneven rhythm of my heart. The city pulsed below, endless, indifferent.
Somewhere, Ethan was probably staring out his own window, doing what he always did—turning emotion into strategy.
But even strategy has limits.
Closeness doesn't need permission, and once it finds its way back in, it doesn't leave quietly.
That was the truth I hadn't been ready to face.
Distance might keep you safe for a while.
But proximity, dangerous or not, was the only thing that ever made me feel alive.