Too Late, Mr. Robbins: I Am Gone

Eloise POV:

I stood in the descending elevator, staring at my pale reflection in the mirrored walls. The courage I'd summoned moments ago was already starting to fade, replaced by a vast, terrifying emptiness.

What had I just done? I had torn up Blaze's check. In his face. The man who held half of New York's sports world in the palm of his hand.

My phone vibrated. A message from Alex Foster, his tone as professional as ever. "Ms. Rogers, Mr. Robbins requests that you complete the official exit procedures with HR before leaving the building."

A bitter laugh escaped me. Was this the final humiliation? A reminder that, in the end, I was just an employee.

"Understood," I typed back.

I walked into the Human Resources department and signed the last of the paperwork under the formulaic guidance of the HR manager, handing over my employee ID card.

Stepping out of the gleaming doors of the Robbins Group tower, the bright New York sun was a physical blow, making my eyes water.

My phone buzzed again. An unknown number. The text was crude and insulting.

"Heard you're out on your ass, sweetheart. Blaze doesn't want you, I do. Name your price."

I instantly recognized the tone. Crockett. Blaze was always surrounded by these entitled, arrogant men.

A wave of nausea rolled through my stomach. It was disgust, pure and simple. In their world, I was just another item to be bought and sold.

My fingers flew across the screen.

"Mr. Ware, watch your mouth. Not every woman is interested in a creature who thinks with his dick."

I hit send and immediately blocked his number.

A deep breath. I hailed a cab, needing to get away from this place, this life, immediately.

In the back of the taxi, I opened my laptop and logged into my personal email. I found the draft I had written weeks ago, a contingency plan I never thought I'd use. The recipients were Blaze's official email and his assistant, Alex Foster.

The subject line: "Resignation and Contract Termination - Eloise."

In the body of the email, I clearly listed all handover items and formally stated my intention to forfeit the final three months of salary stipulated for the "transition period," effective immediately.

It meant I wasn't just refusing the five million. I was actively giving up nearly two hundred thousand dollars of legitimate income.

My finger hovered over the send button. That was real money. Money I needed.

Then I pictured Blaze's dismissive gaze, Crockett's insulting text, the glaring headline of the engagement news.

No. I didn't want a single cent of their money. I wanted my dignity.

I closed my eyes and pressed down hard.

The moment the email was sent, a crushing weight lifted from my shoulders. Five years. I was finally free.

Back in my rented apartment, the first thing I did was start packing. Everything he had ever given me.

The expensive gowns, the jewelry-I put them all into boxes, ready to be donated or sold.

My eyes landed on the one "personal" gift he'd ever given me, sitting on my dresser. A small, crystal hockey puck. He had casually handed it to me after winning his first MVP award, grabbing it from the clutter beside his trophy.

I once thought it meant something. A small piece of his world, just for me. Now I saw it for what it was: a thoughtless handout.

Without hesitation, I tossed it into a box.

After clearing out everything, I collapsed onto the sofa, exhausted, and turned on the TV.

The news was everywhere. Blaze and Annabelle. "The perfect union of sports and media," one commentator gushed.

I watched numbly, my empty stare resting on the TV news.