I Won't Give Up

HARDIN'S POV

"Mother, what are you doing here?" I asked, forcing my voice to sound steady, controlled. But the surprise was there—undeniable, and frankly, unwelcome.

She turned toward me with that maddening, maternal smile of hers. Like she knew something I didn’t. Like she always knew something I didn’t.

"Come on, sweetheart," she said, brushing invisible lint off her tailored pantsuit as she walked toward me with purpose. "I’m your mother. I can visit you whenever I want."

Her heels clicked softly on the marble floor, but her presence thundered in my head. She stopped right in front of me, lifting one perfectly manicured hand to my face.

Her touch was gentle, familiar. Comforting in theory. Smothering in practice.

"Why do you look so tired, darling? Is it work?"

I inhaled slowly, dragging a hand through my hair. "I’m just... stressed."

That was putting it mildly.

Her eyes searched mine like she was hunting for something beneath the surface. A crack. A confession. Anything.

I didn’t give her one.

I moved past her and dropped down onto the couch, the leather cool against my back as I leaned into it, shoulders sagging. She followed, sitting beside me with the elegance of a queen taking her throne.

For a second, I thought maybe—just maybe—she'd drop the act and let things be quiet.

But of course not.

"Beatrice called me," she said casually, like she was talking about the weather. "She told me you left her in Switzerland. Just vanished on her."

I turned my head slowly, eyes narrowing. "Beatrice is the last person I want to talk about right now."

My mother's brows lifted slightly, but she didn’t push back. Not yet.

"Okay," she said, nodding slowly. "Then talk to me about something else. Talk to me, Hardin. I know that look in your eyes. You’re spiraling."

"I'm not spiraling. I just need… some space. Some silence. No lectures. No guilt. No goddamn matchmaking."

She looked taken aback for a moment, but recovered quickly, her voice softer now.

"You think I’m matchmaking? I’m just looking out for you. You know how much I worry about you, especially after all those years we spent apart. I missed so much of your life, and now that I have you back—"

"You want to control it," I interrupted, sharper than I intended. "You want to shape it into what you think is best."

She blinked, then reached out and took my hand. Her grip was gentle, but her eyes were firm.

"I want to understand you, Hardin. I know I can be a lot. But I’m trying. Can you give me that? Can you let me in just a little?"

I looked away. I wanted to tell her everything. The whole goddamn mess.

How Ariana had looked at me like I was a stranger.

How it gutted me to see her warm to someone else.

How it was driving me insane, not knowing if I still meant anything to her.

But I didn’t.

Because she’d never liked Ariana. Never saw her the way I did. Never wanted her for me.

No matter how much she smiled now, she was still the woman who pushed Beatrice in front of me like a winning horse.

So instead, I squeezed her hand once and let go.

"I'm fine."

She didn’t believe me. I saw it in her eyes. But she didn’t push again. Just leaned forward and kissed my cheek.

"Come home for dinner tonight, okay? Don’t run off anywhere mysterious again."

"Fine."

"Promise me, Hardin."

I hesitated.

She raised a brow.

"Promise."

"I promise."

She smiled like she’d won something, stood, smoothed down her suit, and gave my face one last affectionate stroke.

"I’ll see you tonight, darling."

She walked out like she owned the building.

The moment the door clicked shut, I exhaled hard, slumping deeper into the couch.

That could have gone worse.

I stayed there a minute longer, trying to shake off the remnants of the conversation. Trying not to think about Beatrice. Or Ariana. Or the way my chest ached like something had burrowed inside and refused to leave.

Work. I needed to work.

I forced myself off the couch, crossed to my desk, and powered on my computer. The emails were already piling in like a digital avalanche.

I stared at the screen, not really seeing the words.

What the hell was wrong with me?

Why couldn’t I shake this feeling? This restlessness. This fury. This fear.

I opened a file. Reviewed a contract. Typed three lines and deleted them all.

I wasn’t going to get anything done like this.

My thoughts were glued to her.

The way she looked past me at the hospital, like I was nothing.

The way her lips tightened when she saw me, like it physically hurt her to acknowledge I still existed.

God, it made me sick.

Made me want to grab something and hurl it across the room.

But instead, I buried myself deeper in my work. Task after task. Call after call.

Around noon, Ronny texted: You good?

I stared at the message for a full minute before replying: Define good.

He didn’t answer.

Maybe he knew better than to poke a bear with a migraine.

By the time five p.m. rolled around, my head was pounding, and my back ached from sitting too long. But I wasn’t ready to go home.

Home meant dinner.

Dinner meant more questions.

Questions meant lies.

Still, I grabbed my blazer and walked out. The elevator ride down was empty, quiet. My phone buzzed once—Joan again, probably following up—but I ignored it.

I needed air.

Real air.

So instead of heading straight to my car, I walked out of the building and down the sidewalk, loosening my tie as I moved.

I didn’t have a plan. Just a growing need to move.

To breathe.

I found myself two blocks away, leaning against a streetlight outside an old bookstore that Ariana once dragged me into, saying it smelled like home.

I hated the smell.

Now, I missed it.

I pulled out my phone.

Her name glowed on the screen like it was mocking me.

Should I?

Call her again?

No. Not now.

I pocketed the phone, shoving my hands deep into my coat and forcing myself to turn away.

I had dinner to attend.

A mother to placate.

A heart to pretend wasn’t falling apart piece by piece.

As I walked back toward the garage, a thought crept in—quiet, deadly.

What if this was it?

What if she never looked at me the same again?

What if I really did lose her?

No.

I wasn’t going down like that.

She could push me. Ignore me. Erase me from every part of her life.

But I would fight.

I’d fight until there was nothing left in me but ashes.

Because if Ariana thought I was just going to vanish into the background like a bad memory—

She didn’t know me at all.
She's The Boss
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