That’s the moment.
The way he says it—as if he owns me, as if my worth is tied solely to the number on my paycheck—something inside me finally snaps into place.
“I quit.”
The words leave my mouth before I even fully register them.
The room stills.
“What?” Dad and Jules say at the same time, their voices layered in shock.
I turn to face him fully, my grip on Jules’ hand unwavering. “I quit.”
A flicker of something passes through his eyes. Panic? No. He doesn’t panic. He controls. He manipulates. He forces people to bend to his will.
But not me. Not anymore.
I take a step back, still holding Jules’ hand, and reach for the painting she brought me. My fingers brush against the textured canvas. The piece she created with me in mind.
A symbol of something real. Something worth fighting for.
Unlike this. Unlike him.
“You’re not quitting,” Dad snaps, stepping in front of the door like a blockade.
I meet his gaze, steady, unshaken. “I am.” I grab my laptop bag, adjusting it on my shoulder before reaching for Jules’ hand again. “I should have quit years ago, but I didn’t know how.”
Now, I do.
And for the first time in my life, I walk past my father without looking back.
“Did that really just happen?” Jules gasps as we step out of the building, her hand still firmly in mine.
“It did,” I say, exhaling a breath I feel like I’ve been holding for years.
She shakes her head, her curls bouncing with the motion. “You quit.” She says it again, like she needs to hear it to believe it. “Youquit.”
I glance over at her as we approach my car, the reality settling into my bones. “I know.”
“Youquit,” she repeats, but this time, there’s something in her voice. Something warm, something in awe. Like it’s the bravest thing she’s ever seen me do.
The way she looks at me right now. It makes my heart beat harder, faster.
“I’ve been thinking about going into consulting,” I tell her, the words coming easier than I expected. “I’ve been miserable there for so long. I should have quit the night of the gala.”
The mention of it makes her expression shift, her features tightening with the weight of that memory. “You should have.”
When we reach my car, I prop her painting up against the tire and step closer, cupping her face between my hands. “I’m so sorry for that night. For every moment since then. For not choosing you when I should have.”
She nods, her hazelnut eyes searching mine. “I know.”
“I should have walked out of that place with you and never looked back.” It comes out firm, steady, because I know it’s true. I should have chosen her then, but Ididchoose her now. And that has to count for something.
Jules blinks up at me, the barest hint of a smile tugging at her lips. “You just did.” She squeezes my wrist, holding on tight. “Maybe it was two years late, but you did it.”
I let out a breath of laughter, a mix of disbelief and relief. “Yeah,” I say, “I did.”
Her fingers tighten around mine, and when she speaks, it’s softer, more certain than anything she’s said in weeks. “I’m proud of you, Corbin.” The words hit deep, settling in the places I didn’t know needed healing. “I’m so damn proud of you.”
