Chapter 3: Farewell Under Autumn Lights

As night deepened, the streetlights flickered on, painting the city in gold and blue. The venue buzzed with conversation as more guests arrived, their laughter bouncing off the walls.

Mason Caldwell strode in, his black overcoat trailing behind him, a breath of crisp autumn air swirling in with him. I took his coat, the heavy fabric cool beneath my fingers. Maybe this was the last time I’d do this—an ordinary gesture suddenly loaded with meaning.

The weight of the coat in my hands made me pause. I remembered every winter I’d hung it up for him, every spring I’d brushed lint from the shoulders. Tonight, the ritual felt like a goodbye.

Once everyone was settled with drinks in hand, I found a moment to speak. I stood, glass raised, nerves fluttering in my stomach.

“I’m resigning. When I started, I was clueless and made plenty of mistakes. Thank you all for putting up with me.”

“From now on, we may be far apart, but I hope we’ll meet again someday.”

The room went quiet, the mood shifting. Maybe it was the sharpness of autumn, maybe it was the weight of my words, but the sense of farewell was almost physical.

Ethan Quinn broke the silence, lifting his glass. “Honestly, I thought you were into Mason at first, but I get it now.”

Everyone knew what he meant. Mason’s previous secretaries had all been fired for falling for him. Eventually, he hired only men—but even then, confessions happened. The legend of the heartthrob boss lived on.

Someone clapped Mason on the back, teasing, “Who would’ve thought? Someone actually escaped your charm.”

Mason lit a cigar, rolling his eyes with a smile. “Get lost.”

The table erupted in laughter—glasses clinked, playful nudges went around, and for a second, the tension melted away. Mason caught my eye, and I saw something unspoken there—maybe understanding, maybe regret.

After dinner, a few people gathered for cards. The scent of cigars and whiskey hung in the air, shuffling cards punctuating the laughter.

Halfway through, Travis Hayes asked, “Mason, have you met the Sullivan girl your grandma picked out?”

My heart jumped, my hand freezing mid-pour. I couldn’t look at Mason, afraid my face would give me away.

Mason shrugged, voice casual. “No. As long as Grandma’s happy, marrying anyone is the same.”

For people like them, marriage is business—a transaction, a way to gain resources most of us can’t imagine. Mason seemed resigned to it.

I’d met Natalie Sullivan once—a gentle, lovely girl from Savannah. She was sweet, always sipping sweet tea and talking about magnolia trees. She deserved something real, and so did Mason, even if neither believed it.

I remembered her soft Southern accent, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear and listened more than she spoke. If only they could find happiness beyond all the rules.