The contracted wife who left first

The automatic doors of Blackwood Industries slid open. Aria Collins stepped inside. She had once belonged here—and now, she didn't.

It had been three years.

Three years since she walked away from Elias Blackwood.

Three years since she tore the contract in half and disappeared without a goodbye.

Now she was back. Not as his wife, not even as a woman trying to rekindle what once was. She was here on behalf of Calyx Tech, the rising start-up she'd helped build from the ground up, the very company Blackwood Industries was about to absorb.

Her fingers tightened around the file in her hand—a file that contained months of strategy, figures, and paperwork. Everything that mattered to her now. Everything she had left.

"Aria Collins?" a voice called out.

She turned, finding a young receptionist with sleek hair and a practiced smile. Aria noticed the eye flick—the recognition. The name Collins still stirred whispers in these halls.

"You're expected. The elevator will take you straight to the executive floor," the woman added, gesturing toward the sleek elevator banks.

"Thank you," Aria said, nodding politely.

"If you need anything—coffee, water—just let me know when you return."

"I won't be long."

As she stepped into the elevator, the doors closed behind her.

"Calyx Tech," she whispered to herself, just once.

The elevator stopped with a soft chime. The doors parted, revealing the executive floor. The executive floor hadn't changed.

And there he was.

Elias Blackwood stood at the end of the corridor. Immaculately dressed in a charcoal suit.

He looked up as she approached.

"Aria."

Her name on his lips didn't waver.

She met his gaze, steady and unflinching. "Mr. Blackwood."

The flicker deepened for a split second. Surprise? Hurt? Annoyance? She wouldn't let herself care.

"This way," he said, motioning toward the boardroom.

They walked side by side—but not together. His footsteps were quieter, calculated, and matching her pace but never intruding.

"Long flight?" he asked.

"I live here now. No flights needed."

"A recent move?"

"Last month."

"Alone?"

She glanced at him. "That's not relevant."

He gave a soft hum. "Noted."

"Back for good?" he tried again.

"Depends on the deal."

The boardroom was vast and hollow, its long table polished to perfection. No assistants. No advisors. Just the two of them, alone in a space built for negotiations and battles of will.

Aria placed the file on the table with purpose. "I'm here on behalf of Calyx Tech. The merger terms have been reviewed and approved by our legal counsel."

"I know," Elias replied, not sitting. Just watching. "You've done well."

She hesitated. Just for a heartbeat. Praise from him? Unexpected. Unnecessary.

"This is business," she said, lifting her chin slightly. "Let's keep it that way."

He gave a single nod. "Of course."

Finally, he sat, his movements fluid, practiced. Aria followed, opening the file and laying out the documentation with professional precision. She spoke about integration strategy, equity divisions, and brand positioning. Her voice remained clear ar, focused. Detached.

But his eyes never left her.

"Where's your team?" he asked.

"They're handling a separate negotiation overseas. I volunteered to handle this in person."

"You volunteered?"

She looked up. "Is that surprising?"

"A little," he admitted. "Considering how things ended."

"We're not here to talk about that," she said flatly.

"I'm aware," he replied. "Still... I didn't expect you to walk through those doors."

"I go where I'm needed."

He leaned back in his chair. "You always were... decisive."

"And you were always predictable."

He smiled, faintly. "Was that a compliment or an insult?"

"Interpret it however you like."

"You haven't changed much," he added.

"Neither have you," she said.

"You look tired."

"And you look the same. How do you do it?"

"Discipline."

"Of course."

She turned to the final page. "Calyx will retain operational autonomy for the first twelve months. After that, we can revisit structural realignment depending on performance metrics."

He didn't respond right away. When he did, his voice was softer. "Is that your decision? Or your CEO's?"

Her eyes met his. "It doesn't matter. We're aligned."

"What's your official role now?"

"Lead strategist."

"So you're the brain behind the moves."

"One of them."

"Still humble?"

"Still efficient."

He tapped a finger on the table. "You know, this could've been handled over video conference."

"I prefer to look people in the eye."

"Always did," he said.

"Let's sign the preliminary documents. I'll have the legal team follow up tomorrow."

"You're not staying for lunch?"

"I have meetings."

"Cancel them."

"Why?"

"Because I asked."

She stared at him. "That doesn't work on me anymore."

"No?" he asked.

"No."

He leaned forward. "You used to enjoy our lunches."

"That was three years ago."

"Some things don't change."

"Some things do."

He watched her. "Have you moved on?"

"That's none of your concern."

"Do you ever think about what we had?"

She sighed. "This is a merger meeting, not a reunion."

"Answer the question."

"No."

"Liar."

"Back then, I didn't lie to you."

"And now?"

"Now, I only tell the truth when necessary."

"Cold."

"Professional."

"Same thing to you?"

"Close enough."

"Are you seeing anyone?"

"Seriously?"

"Yes."

"I'm not answering that."

"Why not?"

"Because you lost the right to ask."

He leaned back, folding his arms. "Fair."

She gathered the papers, neatly stacking them.

"There's nothing personal about this," she said, rising to her feet. "This is just a transaction."

He stood too, slower this time. "If that's what you need it to be."

The silence stretched. For a moment, neither moved. The tension between them wasn't just history—it was the weight of everything unsaid.

"Will you be staying in the city?" he asked.

"For now."

"Where?"

"That's none of your business."

"I suppose it's not," he said quietly.

She turned to leave.

"Aria," he said, his voice suddenly softer.

She paused, her back to him.

He didn't continue.

"Don't say it," she said over her shoulder. "Not here."

After a beat, she walked out.

The elevator doors closed behind her once more. And as they descended, Aria pressed a hand to her abdomen, her palm flat against the fabric of her blouse—just above the scar from the C-section. Just above the place where life had begun again for her, three years ago.

And he didn't know.

Not yet.

But soon.