Sweet Romance15 min read
"Photos, Honey, and the Day I Stopped Waiting"
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1
"I can't believe you didn't come to the rehearsal dinner," my mother said, standing in the doorway with her arms full of takeout boxes.
"Mom, he had a meeting." I set the grocery bag down and forced a smile that didn't reach my eyes.
"He had a meeting yesterday, and the week before. He had meetings the whole month," she replied. "Lydia, why are you always the one waiting?"
"I'm not waiting," I said, because saying it made me feel steadier.
"You look like you're waiting," she said, softer. "Come, let's eat while it's hot."
"I'll be fine." I watched her unpack, the way she smoothed a napkin like it was something fragile. I thought of the years—how we had left our small town for him, how I'd carried the mats and the boxes, how the first months had smelled like paint and shared cigarettes and hope.
2
"You're sure he managed the pick-up at the airport the first day, right?" my father asked later, when the room had quieted.
"He did," I said. "He had to leave right after. Work."
"And then?" my mother asked.
"Then he was late most of the time," I answered. "But he still called at night, didn't he?"
"He called," my father nodded, "but listening isn't the same as being there."
"I know," I said. "I know, Dad."
3
"Did he send flowers?" my friend Julia asked on the phone.
"No." I laughed, a patch of heat in my throat. "You think flowers would fix seven years?"
"Depends on the flowers," she said. "What did you expect?"
"A cake, maybe. A 'surprise' where he fumbles with his pockets and pulls out a ring," I said, because we had always joked like that when we were younger and reckless.
"That's not an expectation. That's a trap," Julia said. "Don't fall for it."
4
"He was at the gala," he told me the next morning, brushing crumbs off his lap while he read an iPad.
"You mean he stepped into the gala long enough for a photo op and then left?" I said, spoon hovering over porridge.
"He had to take an important call." He didn't look up.
"You mean the call with his phone," I said. "The one he used to put on the table and ignore me?"
"Don't be dramatic." He glanced up, eyes flat. "I had work. I told you."
"I know you had work," I said. "Work has always been the excuse, Liam."
5
"He mentioned that Armani is new," I said that night, sitting on the sofa while he scrolled.
"She's just the new assistant," he said quickly. "She's inexperienced. I had to take care of her."
"You took care of her into the hotel room." The words came out sharper than I meant.
"It was one time," he said, like that made it less wrong. "She was drunk and I had to get her home. I carried her—"
"Into a room where you stayed the night," I finished.
"It was nothing like that," he said. "You always overthink."
6
"Armani told me she's never had to fend for herself," I said later, when I overheard her small, bright voice in our elevator.
"She's young," he said. "She needs help sometimes."
"That's what an internship is for," I said. "Not hotel bedrooms."
"You're making a mountain out of a molehill," he said. "You used to be different."
"I changed because you asked me to," I said. "I changed because I wanted to be what you needed."
7
"Are you staying for the anniversary?" I texted, hands trembling.
He didn't reply until the evening.
"I'm stuck at the office. But I'm proud of you." The reply felt like someone folding a sheet of paper into a dull square and handing it back.
"Don't be snide," I wrote. "This is my birthday."
"I know," he answered. "Happy birthday." Three small words, light as dust.
8
"I waited until midnight," I told my mother, because there was safety in plain things.
"And?"
"No call," I said. "No 'happy birthday.'"
My mother's hand squeezed mine. "Then why are you waiting?"
"Because," I finally said, "seven years is more than a habit."
9
"Are you upset?" his voice when he finally called was casual.
"I'm not a watch you can set to go off when it's convenient for you," I said.
"I had to be at a client's dinner," he said. "He was important."
"And Armani?" I asked.
"She's gone," he said. "She quit."
"She quit because I complained," I said. "You told HR to fire her, didn't you?"
"No, I told HR you were causing trouble," he said like truth.
"Then why are you defending her?" I asked. "You let her in the car that night. You made excuses."
"Because she looked like you used to," Liam said. "She didn't know how to be in the world. She's fragile."
"You're changing fragile into an excuse," I said.
10
"You wrote the transfer," he said when I told him I'd signed the documents to leave the company.
"You wanted out too," I said. "You told everyone you would marry me, then you forgot." My voice was steadier than I felt.
"I did forget," he said. "I was trying to build something. I thought I was protecting you."
"Protecting me by making me invisible?" I asked. "Protecting me by letting me be the punching bag for partners and clients?"
"I didn't mean for you to sacrifice," he said.
"Then stop telling me how I owe you our company and keep giving me crumbs of your attention," I said. "Keep them. Keep your crumbs."
11
"You can't just quit like this," he said later, his tone heated. "We have shareholders. You were part of this."
"I never signed a promise to stay forever," I said. "I signed to help it grow."
"You're selling your shares?" He sounded like someone who'd been slapped.
"I already offered them to you," I said. "You didn't move fast enough."
"Why would you give them up?" He was frantic now.
"Because I wanted to leave," I said. "Because I couldn't be the woman who waits for scraps."
12
"I found a job," I told him casually a week later.
"You what?" He sounded lost.
"A position at a private equity firm," I said. "It's a step back title-wise, but it's right work."
"You're an analyst?" If there was disbelief in his voice, it fed something cold and bright inside me.
"Intern to you, practical to me," I said. "I can rebuild."
13
"I heard you were going to the 4S salon for a service check," he said as if the world hadn't cracked between us.
"Yes," I said.
He followed me there the day of my test drive.
"You don't have to be alone," he said, eyes soft.
"I don't want you here," I said. "I don't need you watching me fumble."
"I can help," he said.
"You never 'helped' when I needed you," I said. "You helped someone else."
14
"I thought you would help me park," I joked when he climbed into my car.
"Let me," he said, moving to the wheel like he had before.
He took the wheel, and the ease of it—his hands, the way he adjusted the mirror—felt like a theft of memory.
"Why are you doing this?" I asked.
"Because I still love you," he said. "Because I can't stand to see you struggle."
"I used to think you loved me more than that," I said. "Now I think you love the idea of me."
15
"You always said you'd marry me when the company survives," he said one night, more pleading than proud.
"I thought you'd say yes when you could," I said. "I thought you'd show me."
"I will," he said. "I'm working on it."
"Working doesn't count," I said. "I need a yes that isn't on a checklist."
16
"You were at the wedding," I heard later from a friend who'd seen him.
"I had to go," he said, trying too hard to be casual later when he found me at the reception.
"Why were you near me?" I asked.
"Just to talk," he said. "I've realized things."
"Realized what?" I demanded.
"That I've been a coward," he said. "That I let the easy thing happen."
"Is 'the easy thing' Armani?" I asked. "Is she the easy thing or the cowardice?"
"It's both," he admitted, shame lining his face. "She made me feel able to be who I wasn't."
17
"You should stop calling me," I said finally, because empty exclamations were moisture that made everything duller.
"Please," he begged.
"No," I said. "Not now."
"I can't live without you," he said.
"Then learn to live without me," I said.
18
Months passed like small strict lessons. I rebuilt in a market tower, in a narrow office where the young men I trained called me "senior" and the old bosses watched me test spreadsheets and models. I ate dinners alone and filled the apartment with little green plants and books on valuation. I learned how to make my own coffee the way I liked it.
"You sure about this?" Julian asked the first week I joined Grover's firm. He handed me a report with a smile that said trust me.
"I'm sure," I said. "I'm tired of being small for the sake of others."
19
"Interview the CEO," my boss Grover said, sliding me the folder. "He was your partner."
My throat tightened. "Yes," I said. "I'll be professional."
"Remember," Grover said, "this is about the company."
"It always was," I said, and when I met Liam across that conference table, the space between us full of glass and microphones and people who wanted to see drama, I kept my voice steady.
20
"Why did the Lin deal fall apart?" I asked.
"He thought she was too forward," Liam said, nostrils tight.
"She wasn't forward," I said. "She had concerns we needed to address."
"She had designs on you," he said.
"Then show me the evidence," I said. "Prove it casually."
He looked at me, and the meeting hung. "She wrote in ways that made me uncomfortable," he said.
"You mean her proposal? You mean the deal we almost closed?" I asked. "Liam, you let personal fears ruin a contract that saved this company once before."
"I did what I thought was right," he said.
21
"You don't have to be cruel to prove a point," I said in the hallway when he followed me.
"I'm not cruel," he said. "I'm practical."
"Practical is not a shovel," I said. "Practical doesn't dig graves for people's livelihoods."
22
"They're asking why the company is unstable," Grover said quietly. "We need to be careful with tone."
"So say the facts," I said. "I'll write it cleanly."
23
"She was fragile," Liam told an interviewer months later, when cameras turned toward our office.
"She was a secretary," I said when I heard it, because hearing him call her "secretary" made her into something inferior in the world view he wanted to sell.
"She was like you," he said, voice breaking.
"Stop making excuses," I said to the empty room. "Stop making my past into an ornament you keep dusting."
24
The punishment—when it came—wasn't planned as revenge. It was a carefully chosen point where power, truth, and an audience converged.
"You're going to the shareholders' meeting?" Grover asked.
"I am," I said. "Because if this company is going to stand on truth, it must withstand a public question."
"Promise me you'll be careful," Julian said. "This will get ugly."
"Answer me one thing first," I asked them both. "If he lies, will you stand with me?"
"We'll stand with the facts," Grover said.
25 — The Punishment Scene (public, over 500 words)
The room smelled of coffee and formal linen. A long table ran the length of the hall, and at the far end, a podium, microphones glinting under spotlights. There were journalists, two cameras, and a handful of clients who looked the way people do when they are trying very hard not to be part of a soap opera.
"You asked for the floor." The chair of the meeting, stone-faced, tapped the gavel.
"I did," I said, and I felt my pulse in the palms of my hands. "I asked because there are things shareholders deserve to know."
"Ms. Carpenter—" Liam started, his voice the brittle tone of someone who'd rehearsed indignation.
"Let me speak first," I said. "This isn't about insults. It's about the company and the truth."
A murmur moved through the room. Cameras pivoted. I looked at Liam. He was in a suit that fit well, hair combed, hands folded as if they held a net.
"Why did you hire Armani Danielsson as your assistant and then defend her publicly without explaining the overlap of private and professional time?" I asked, voice steady.
"Armani is a capable woman," he said. "She was in need, and I helped her."
"Helped, yes," said a voice behind me. "And sometimes help looks like favor."
"Ms. Carpenter—" he began, more urgent now.
"Let me finish." I lifted the stack of documents I'd prepared. "You told investors Armani had no influence on decisions. You told employees her presence was incidental. Yet, on nights when confidential meetings occurred, she was at the same table. When clients called, she often left messages on the CEO's phone first. When deals were rerouted, her name appeared in vendor lists. It's not an accusation of sex; it's an accusation of mismanagement and conflict of interest."
"You have no proof," Liam snapped. "This is slander."
"Do I?" I asked. "Do I have no proof?" I turned to the clerk at my side and said, "Play the recordings."
A slim media coordinator hit a button. In the small speakers came the strain of voicemail clips: Hernando's voice thanking Liam for letting him know Armani would attend dinners; Armani's breathy excuse recorded on a night when the CEO's door closed. There were messages from a supplier copied to Armani as a CC. There was a recorded text where Armani said, "He said not to worry, it's fine."
The room exhaled as if a sheet had been removed.
Liam's face changed in stages. First there was the shock of recognition—that tiny, sharp, helpless thing. Then there was the flaring denial: "Those are private messages!" he blurted. "You hacked into my phone!"
"We were given permission through legal channels," Grover said quietly at my side. "This is official disclosure."
A hand rose from the back, the old partner who'd always looked skeptical. "If these communications influenced company decisions, then there is a breach of fiduciary duty."
Liam's voice became brittle. "It's nothing like you think!"
"Is it?" I asked. "You defended her publicly to me. You pretended there was nothing between you. You fired her because of me and said I had gone too far. You asked HR to terminate someone and then expected me to stay silent when the integrity of the company was on the line."
"You're lying!" he shouted, and for a moment his voice sounded like a cracked record.
The cameras caught that, and it was a moment. People leaned in. Smartphones lit like moths.
Armani, who hadn't yet left the meeting area though she'd been told not to attend, found her way into the doorway like someone stepping onto a stage unsure of the script. She had been pale for weeks now, but under the lights she looked stunned, then furious.
"This is a personal vendetta!" she said, voice trembling. "He helped me. He gave me chance. I wasn't—"
"You were a presence in meetings," I said. "You were copied on sensitive vendor lists, you advised on small contracts, and people listened because you had his ear."
Armani's face crumpled. "I—" she began, "I thought I was doing right. I thought helping him meant loyalty."
"That loyalty cost jobs," said another shareholder. "It cost our reputation."
"But she was young!" Liam pleaded. "She needed help!"
"She was picked because she resonated with you," I said. "She wasn't selected on merit."
He looked at me then with an expression I remember from younger days: pleading, confused, like a man catching a glass that's slipping. "Please," he said. "I didn't mean to—"
"Meaning doesn't negate impact," Grover said, voice like steel. "What matters is the outcome."
I stepped forward, because the room needed to witness more than words. I pulled out the box I'd carried—photos. They were our photos, once bright with us in cheaper suits and paint-streaked hands. I'd ripped many earlier in private, a ritual that had felt like practice for this day. For weeks, I'd been collecting the proof and the pictures, turning private moments into pages for the public ledger.
"This one is when we closed the Lin contract," I said, holding a cracked photo up to the lights. "We sat up all night. We celebrated with cheap noodles. I thought then you'd keep that promise."
Liam reached out, a human reflex that looked suddenly childish and raw. "Don't."
"No," I said. "You already took them for granted when they suited you. Now everyone sees how you let private distractions influence company affairs."
A murmur of "Oh" and "Hmm" moved like a small wave. A client clicked photos on his phone. Someone began recording. Armani covered her face with both hands, beginning to cry thick, audible sobs that were swallowed by the room's new hum.
Liam's bravado collapsed in stages. First he was indignant; then incredulous; denial; then shame. He sputtered, trying to explain. He said, "I'm not a villain. I love this company. I love you."
"You love your comfort," I said. "You love the idea of being generous when it is convenient."
The CEO, who had been watching from the side, stood up. "Mr. Conrad," he said carefully, "the board will convene and discuss these matters. There will be an inquiry."
"And his personal conduct?" someone asked.
"That will be part of the inquiry," the chair said.
Liam's protest thinned. Around him, colleagues whispered. Shareholders shifted, trading looks that weren't kind. A woman near the front—the one I'd helped early on—stood and applauded, not in approval but in the way people applaud when a curtain falls and the truth has been spoken.
Armani had slumped in a chair, then suddenly bolted up. "I didn't mean to—" she cried.
"I know," I said. "But the consequences are public."
She ran from the room. People recorded. Journalists spun their heads, already composing the front-page lines: CEO under scrutiny; internal favoritism; shareholder anger.
Liam's face was wet. He didn't collapse to his knees. Instead, he sat and made no sound. The room filled with neighborly shame and the odd, sharp clatter of obligation. It was punishment because it took away his cultivated privacy and spread the clutter of his choices across a table for all to inspect. His reaction moved in waves: first the blink of disbelief, "this can't be happening," then blistering denial, a plea to be believed, then the stunned realization that his reputation was bleeding, then panic, then a child's small, ragged apology.
He begged, "Please. Please don't—" but the room had long since turned away into murmurs and business talk.
Outside, cameras flashed.
Inside, men and women who'd respected him a week ago now plotted how to salvage their investments. Armani's sobs echoed by the door. Journalists took notes. The chair banged the gavel and declared a recess.
When the meeting broke, people didn't cluster around Liam. They turned to whisper to me, to ask questions in low, careful voices. Some said, "Good on you." Others said, "Was it necessary?" A few asked, sorrowfully, "Are you okay?"
"I'm fine," I told them, which was both true and a small untruth. The truth was friction: pain mixed with relief. I had exposed the fracture and seen it widen in public light. That was punishment—public, uncontained, with witnesses and recorders and the slow, merciless grinding of reputation. It made him small in front of the people who mattered for the company.
Liam followed me into the stairway. "You didn't have to do that," he said, voice low, raw.
"I did," I said. "You didn't have to pretend. You didn't have to make me the altar for your guilt."
He sank onto the steps. "I love you," he whispered, cracked glass of a man trying to hold shape.
"I loved you enough to help the company," I said. "I loved you enough to keep the company safe. I love myself enough to stop being the one who waits for apologies that never teach."
He covered his face with his hands. "I'm sorry," he said, over and over again.
It didn't fix anything.
26
"I saw the footage," my mother said later when I called.
"You didn't have to call," I said.
"I called because I wanted to say I was proud," she said. "You did the right thing."
27
"Did you see the board's memo?" Julian asked quietly, sliding a coffee across my desk.
"I did," I said. "What now?"
"They're opening an independent review," Julian said. "And they've asked Liam to step aside until the audit finishes."
"He'll protest," I said.
"Maybe," Julian said. "But this is about the company's future. You did the right thing."
28
"They called me the next day," a young HR manager told me later. "Armani's apartment's lease is unpaid. She told me she had the chance because she made some choices. She's asking for help."
"Give her a reference," I said. "Find a way to help her get back on her feet. She made mistakes, but she is not beyond help."
"Will Liam be okay?" she asked.
"I don't know," I said. "He has to meet his own consequences."
29
"I saw them in the stairwell," a coworker told me. "He was pale, like a boy caught in the rain."
"That's justice," someone else muttered.
"Or it's a ruin," another said.
30
"I don't want him to be destroyed," I told Grover later. "I don't wish for ruin."
"You wanted fairness," Grover said. "You wanted truth."
"I wanted us to be honest," I said. "I wanted to stop pretending."
31
"I worked the deal again," I told the board. "I cleaned the issues. We can move forward, but without emotional interference."
"We'll support you," Julian said. "You run the new diligence team."
"My people?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
32
"Do you regret it?" my father asked when we spoke.
"No," I said simply. "It hurt to do, but it would have hurt more to keep silent."
"Good," he said. "You were right."
33
Months later, I sat with a box of photos on my kitchen table. They were almost a ritual now; whenever I felt the tug of old rooms, I'd take out a picture and remember.
"What are you doing?" Liam asked when he came by that day, stepping softly into the place that had once been ours.
"Finishing," I said. "I'm putting them away."
He looked at the photos, at the rip lines I had made months ago.
"Please—" he started.
"Not now," I said. "This is not about you asking anymore. This is about me moving."
"I still love you," he said, older in the voice than in the face.
"I believe you," I said. "But love isn't a single currency. It must be paid in the things people do."
34
"Are you going to tear the last one?" he asked.
"I already did," I said, and, because he deserved the moment, I pulled from the box a single un-torn photo. It was one I had kept by accident, a picture of us on a back road, headlights dim, our shadows leaning together. I put it on the shelf.
"Remember that we once promised," he said, "in bad handwriting and cheap ink."
"I remember," I said. "But promises are kept by two."
35
"I hope you find someone who looks at you the way you want them to," I told him.
"And I hope you find someone who doesn't have a ledger of expectations," he replied.
"Maybe," I said. "But I hope I continue to find myself."
36
At a friend's wedding later, the bride tossed the bouquet. It landed in my hands like a small white confession.
"To Lydia," she said, "because you deserve that."
The crowd laughed and applauded. I smiled and didn't feel anything sharp. The bouquet smelled like lilies and salt and the kind of small beginnings I hadn't allowed myself in a long time.
"Are you okay?" Grover asked as he handed me a glass of champagne.
"I'm better," I said. "I have work I love, friends who don't keep score, and mornings where the coffee is mine."
37
"Do you still want to marry me?" Liam asked once, later, in a place with fewer cameras and a longer view.
"No," I said softly. "I want to marry the person who chooses me every day. You chose differently."
He nodded. "I know."
"Goodbye, Liam," I said.
"Goodbye," he whispered.
38 — Epilogue
I filed the last torn piece into a small envelope and slid it into the back of a drawer. The photos were faded, but the edges had a kind of newness—sharp, finished, no longer dangling.
"Every time I didn't leave, I was hopeful," I told Julian once, over black coffee. "I wanted the man who said he'd marry me to be true."
"He wasn't," Julian said.
"No," I said. "But some of it was my fault too. I waited longer than I should have. I let the company's needs drown my own."
"Then what now?" he asked.
"Now I live for the small truths," I said. "An email that isn't delayed, a meeting that happens, a cake that isn't forgotten—small, honest things."
The kettle clicked, and the apartment smelled like a place I had made for myself.
"This is the last picture," I said, taking the single perfect photo from the shelf and smiling.
It was the one with us on the back road, shadows leaning together under a lamp. For a moment I held it, not as a trap, but as a record.
Then I set it on the windowsill and left the room. The sunlight caught the edge like a tiny promise: fragile, real, and mine.
The End
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