Cut My Losses, Watched Him Lose Everything

Everyone assumed I was acting out of spite.

In reality, I was simply cutting my losses. It was true for my emotions, and it was true for my life.

The video conference ended, and the large screen faded to black. Silence reclaimed the meeting room, broken only by the low hum of the cooling projector. Beyond the glass curtain wall, rain hammered against the city, reducing the skyline to a blur of gray.

My executive assistant trailed behind me, tablet in hand. "Ms. Harding, you have the headquarters briefing tonight. Shall I push it back thirty minutes?"

"No need."

I snapped the folder shut and rose from my seat.

At the end of the corridor, a familiar figure waited. Nathan Pruitt stood by the floor-to-ceiling window, coffee cup in hand. He looked as though he'd been waiting for some time. His features were sharper now, his gaze steadier than the man in my memories.

"Willow."

I paused, meeting his eyes with a nod. "Long time no see."

It had been years. Standing there, the sound of the rain blurring the world outside, I felt a momentary disorientation—as if the past had folded onto the present.

He extended the cup toward me. "Careful. It's hot."

I hesitated for a fraction of a second before taking it.

"You always ran low on sugar," he said softly. "Rainy days tend to drain you."

Warmth seeped through the cardboard sleeve, grounding me. It turned out some things didn't need to be forced. Some people simply remembered.

We skipped the pleasantries. Nathan suggested we sit downstairs, and I didn't object.

The lounge was quiet, the storm muffled by thick glass.

"You've lost weight," he observed.

"Work keeps me busy."

"And your health?"

I met his gaze but remained silent. He smiled, smoothly shifting gears before I could put up a wall.

That sense of boundaries is dangerous. It makes it too easy to let your guard down.

I had never forgotten Nathan Pruitt. Not because of some grand, earth-shattering passion, but because he was clean.

We were on the same project team once—he handled mergers and acquisitions, I managed risk control. Everyone knew we were close, yet he never crossed the line.

I was the one who pulled away first. I chose Walter Delgado. In hindsight, the irony is bitter.

I thought I could walk with Walter from the bottom to the summit. But experience proves a cruel truth: once some people reach the shore, the first thing they do is cut the anchor.

"I heard you transferred to North America. Voluntary?" Nathan asked.

"Mm."

"Rumor has it you were squeezed out."

I lowered my head and took a slow sip of coffee. "Let them talk."

He looked at me, his tone calm and unwavering. "Willow, you aren't the type of woman who gets squeezed out."

He said it lightly, but the words struck a chord, tightening my chest.

My phone buzzed against the table. The screen lit up: Walter Delgado.

I ignored it.

It buzzed again almost immediately.

Nathan glanced at the glowing screen. "If you don't want to answer, don't."

I flipped the phone face-down. "There's no point."

The rain outside tapered off to a drizzle.

As we stood to leave, Nathan asked, "Plans tonight?"

"Work."

He nodded, accepting the boundary. "Another time, then."

"Okay."

He walked a few paces, then stopped. "Willow."

I turned back.

"If you need help this time... come to me."

Looking at him, I realized something profound: when someone has your back, you don't need to bow your head to anyone.

I nodded. "I know."

By the time I returned to the hotel, the city was draped in darkness.