Chapter 6

Summer's POV

After the gala, the Vance family was in absolute chaos.

My father called me into his study and slammed the door. "Do you have any idea how much of a laughingstock you made us last night? The family raised you to be our representative, not to help Julian humiliate us!"

I stood before his desk, still wearing my black dress from the night before. I hadn't slept, my face was pale, but my spine was straight.

"The family didn't raise me to be your weapon, either."

My father choked.

"When I was threatening Julian with his mother's care, none of you stopped me. When I forced him into an engagement, you said it was great for securing our projects. Now that I'm letting him go, you call it humiliating." I stared at him. "Dad, do you actually hate that I was crazy, or do you just hate that I'm not crazy enough to be controlled anymore?"

My father raised his hand to slap me.

But the door swung open. Julian stood at the threshold, his gaze locking onto my father’s raised hand.

"The board is waiting downstairs," Julian said coldly. "If you want them to watch a domestic dispute, please, continue."

My father’s hand froze in midair before slowly dropping back to the desk.

Downstairs in the conference room, several senior board members were already seated. I knew this meeting wasn't just about projects; it was about stripping Julian and me of our authority.

One of the directors spoke up first. "Summer, you just suffered a head injury and your condition is unstable. It would be best to hand your voting proxy over to your father for now."

I opened my folder. "Since my condition is unstable, I've already scheduled a professional psychological evaluation. Until the results are out, I won't be signing any proxy agreements."

Another director smiled politely. "And what about Julian? Now that the engagement is off, it's highly inappropriate for him to continue managing the Southside Project."

Before Julian could speak, I pushed a stack of files across the table.

"The Southside Project was secured by Julian, and he built the entire team. His authority doesn't come from a marriage contract; it comes from his performance metrics." I paused, looking around the table. "On the other hand, I think some of you need to explain why you sneaked your own suppliers into the project using my name last year."

The faces of several directors turned pale.

Julian glanced at me, a hint of surprise in his eyes. I hadn't just been looking at personal journals last night; I had been studying project files.

The meeting dragged on for three hours. My father had intended to strip us of our power, but instead, Julian and I joined forces to kick out two shell company suppliers.

By the time the meeting ended, I could barely stand. I gripped the edge of the table, my vision swimming.

Julian reached out, steadying my arm. "That's enough."

"Not yet," I whispered. "I have to prove that letting you go isn't because my brain is broken."

"You don't have to prove anything to anyone."

I looked up at him. "Not even to you?"

Julian’s hand stiffened on my arm.

I offered a weak smile. "Just kidding. Don't worry, I won't force you to answer."

The air between us went still.

In the past, I probably would have demanded an answer, forced him to stay, and begged him to love me. Now that I was stepping back, he looked like he didn't know where to stand anymore.

That night, when I returned to my room, I found a cardboard box by my door.

Inside were things I had given Julian over the years: ties, cufflinks, expensive pens, and a cracked silver pocket watch.

At the bottom was a sticky note in Julian's handwriting: These are all the things you once threatened to take back. I'm returning them to you.

I held the box for a long time. He wasn't just returning items; he was returning all the forced dreams I had shoved onto him, leaving me to decide whether to keep them or throw them away.

I carried the box inside and cataloged each item.

The tie was bought when I was nineteen, the receipt still at the bottom of the box. The cufflinks were the pair to the one on my nightstand—the missing one had probably been lost near the stone steps the night of my fall. The expensive pen had tiny scratches on the cap, as if it had been gripped too hard and thrown. The pocket watch was the oldest, with my mother’s name engraved on the back.

My finger traced her name, and a sudden pang of grief hit my chest. I couldn't remember why I had given him something so precious, or why I had demanded it back.

But I could guess. The old me had treated "giving away my most precious possession" as a way to claim ownership over him.

I opened a new notebook and wrote on the first page: Memories are not bargaining chips. You cannot use them to buy someone's presence.

I put the pocket watch in my drawer.

Not because I had forgiven myself, but because some things needed to wait until I was worthy of returning them to the person they belonged to.