Mostly because I refused to let it become anything like working for him.

Our third dinner proved that.

My phone rang during dessert.

My new boss.

I silenced it.

Jackson looked at the phone.

“Emergency?”

“No.”

“How do you know?”

“Because I’m eating dessert.”

He stared at me.

Then laughed.

Actually laughed.

“You’ve changed.”

“No. I stopped being afraid of disappointing people.”

His expression became serious.

“Including me?”

“Especially you.”

“Good.”

I pointed my fork at him.

“Don’t get too pleased with yourself.”

“I’m learning.”

He was.

At Pierce Global, mandatory weekend work dropped sharply.

Executive assistants received overtime protection and additional staffing.

Managers had to justify after-hours requests.

Margot was promoted.

None of those changes had my name attached.

That made them more meaningful.

Jackson had not changed policy to impress me.

He had changed it because the old system was wrong.

Two months after Sophie’s wedding, Jackson invited me to his penthouse.

When I arrived, he was cooking.

Or attempting to.

Smoke drifted from a skillet.

“What happened?”

“I followed the recipe.”

“Did the recipe say burn it?”

“No.”

“Then your execution needs restructuring.”

Jackson looked at me.

“Harrington?”

“Harrington.”

He turned off the stove.

“We’re ordering food.”

“Excellent leadership.”

While we waited, I noticed something on his bookshelf.

A framed photograph.

Sophie’s wedding.

My family.

Me beside Sophie.

Jackson standing several feet away, caught in the background talking to Dad.

“Where did you get this?”

“Your father sent it.”

“My father likes you far too much.”

“He appreciates punctuality.”

“He also appreciates people who own helicopters.”

“That may contribute.”

I turned toward him.

“Why did you really come to the wedding?”

Jackson’s expression changed.

“I told you.”

“You came to apologize.”

“Yes.”

“You could have called.”

“Yes.”

“Why didn’t you?”

He leaned against the kitchen counter.

“Because after you walked into that elevator, I went back into my office.”

I waited.

“And?”

“And nothing worked.”

I smiled faintly.

“That sounds dramatic.”

“It isn’t meant to.”

He looked at me steadily.

“I realized I had spent three years building my life around someone I treated like a function.”

My smile disappeared.

“You knew when I ate. When I left. When I was tired. When I was irritated. You could tell from my face whether a meeting had gone badly.”

He paused.

“But I never asked what any of it cost you.”

“Jackson—”

“I’m not asking you to forgive the old version of me.”

“Good.”

“I don’t like him very much either.”

The doorbell rang.

Dinner.

The moment broke.

Later, we stood near the windows overlooking Manhattan.

Jackson took my hand.

Not possessively.

Almost cautiously.

“There was one rule my father taught me,” he said.

“What rule?”

“Never give another person enough importance to change your decisions.”

“That sounds healthy.”

“It wasn’t.”

I looked at our hands.

“And you broke it?”

“No.”

I raised an eyebrow.

He continued.

“You didn’t change my decisions.”

His thumb moved lightly across my fingers.

“You made me question why I was making them.”

I looked up.

“That sounds dangerously close to personal growth.”

“I’m hoping it’s temporary.”

I laughed.

Then he kissed me.

No command.

No ultimatum.

No assumption.

I kissed him back because I wanted to.

And that difference was everything.