Chapter 8
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Alex stared through the massive floor-to-ceiling windows at the city below—a toy-like miniature from this height.
The empire he'd built with his bare hands now felt hollow.
He tried focusing on work.
Merger documents lay before him, each figure representing tens of millions in play.
But all he could see was Emma in the library, her eyes bright with academic passion.
He grabbed his phone and pulled up her number, finger hovering over the dial button before courage failed him.
What could he possibly say?
Explanations?
When he couldn't even convince himself, how the hell could he convince her?
Finally, he drove to campus.
He spotted her leaving the library, arms full of books, sunlight catching her chestnut hair and edging it with gold.
She looked peaceful—more relaxed than she'd ever seemed with him.
He stepped into her path.
"Emma."
His voice came out rough.
Emma froze, then looked up.
Her eyes held neither hatred nor love.
Just perfect, polite detachment.
"Can I help you with something, Mr. Romano?"
The formal address cut deeper than any insult could have.
"We need to talk."
"I believe we've said everything that matters."
She sidestepped him, ready to walk away.
Alex caught her wrist, his grip tighter than he intended.
"That's not true."
His voice carried a note of pleading he didn't recognize in himself.
"I need time to figure out what I'm feeling. Just give me some time."
Emma's eyes dropped to where his fingers circled her wrist, then slowly lifted to meet his gaze.
"Then go figure it out."
Her voice remained quiet but crystal clear.
"But don't expect me to stand still while you do."
She yanked her arm free.
"Alex, I'm not the one who needs help."
"You are."
With that, she clutched her books tighter and walked into the building without a backward glance.
Alex stood frozen, the ghost of her wrist still warm against his palm.
He felt hollow.
He had lost.
Completely and utterly lost her.
Back in his office, he left the lights off.
In the darkness, he truly examined himself for the first time.
From fallen golden boy to business titan who could move mountains with a phone call.
He'd spent his life proving himself, winning at all costs.
He'd grown addicted to control—over markets, over deals, over hearts.
He'd convinced himself that was love.
A powerful, generous kind of love.
But Emma's departure had shattered that illusion completely.
He picked up his phone, ignoring the market reports and competitor analyses.
Instead, he typed words that felt foreign on his fingers.
"Psychological counseling." "Emotional barriers." "Savior complex."
The screen's glow revealed something new in his eyes—raw uncertainty.
A few days later, Emma knocked on her advisor's door.
"Professor, I'd like to apply for the Oxford exchange program."
Her advisor looked surprised but, noting the determination in her eyes, nodded.
"Your academic record is excellent. I'll draft a recommendation letter right away."
Leaving his office, Emma realized she hadn't felt this light in months.
Leaving was the only gift she could give herself now.
That night, her phone buzzed once.
A message from Alex.
"I've made an appointment with a therapist."
Just that. No explanation. No plea.
Emma stared at those words, unable to form a response.
Her phone lit up again.
"I'll prove it to you."
"Prove that it's you I love."
Oxford's autumn brought rain without warning.
Cold droplets pelted ancient cobblestones, filling the air with the scent of damp earth and centuries-old books.
Emma walked beneath her black umbrella, passing the massive dome of the Radcliffe Camera. Here, Boston's chaos felt worlds away, replaced by a silence that had settled over centuries.
Here, she found herself again.
She wasn't the girl who needed saving anymore. She was Emma Sterling, Oxford exchange student in Art History.
"Oi, American workaholic!" called a teasing voice with a posh British accent from behind.
Emma turned to find her classmate Oliver, a blond Brit dramatically clutching an "Art History" tome thick enough to be classified as a weapon. "If we don't hurry, Merton's kitchen staff won't save us any dinner."
Emma closed her notes with a smile. "The Medici family intrigues are far more fascinating than your soggy British fish and chips."
"Brutal American." Oliver clutched his chest in mock offense before grinning. "Seriously though, your paper on Florentine patronage systems impressed even old Hamilton. You've conquered Oxford, Emma."
She had won.
Not through anyone's charity, but through her own intellect, she'd earned her place among scholars. The victory felt solid and warm.
Meanwhile, across the Atlantic in Boston.
Alex's world had lost its color.
His assistant Marco burst into the office, barely containing his excitement.
"Boss, we did it! The Storm Tech hostile takeover is complete! Their stock crashed, and we snagged their AI patents for pennies on the dollar!"
Marco waved the documents triumphantly. "It's our biggest win this year! We absolutely crushed them!"
The man behind the desk merely grunted in response.
Marco's smile faltered. This victory was worth billions—the old Alex would have already uncorked the champagne.
But now, Alex just stared silently out the window.
He returned to his penthouse that night, the sprawling city view welcoming him with vast, cold emptiness. For the first time, he realized victory could taste like nothing at all.
He even attempted cooking for himself, nearly setting his million-dollar German kitchen ablaze in the process.
Standing amid the kitchen chaos, his therapist's words echoed in his mind.
"Mr. Romano, you control everything because you fear losing control. What you call love resembles a meticulously planned acquisition—with the human heart as your target."
The human heart.
Almost unconsciously, he opened a social media app he rarely used. Emma's last post before leaving appeared on screen.
A photo of Oxford's campus with a simple caption: [New life.]
In the corner, she walked beside a blond man, her smile radiant.
Alex's chest tightened.
He closed the app and called his assistant, his voice glacial.
"Marco."
"Boss, what can I do for you?"
"Does Romano Group have any arts-related charitable foundations?"
"Yes, sir. We have a global art restoration foundation, but… it's small and has been mostly inactive for years."
"Expand it," Alex commanded tonelessly. "Create a specialized scholarship for art history research at top universities, particularly… for doctoral candidates focusing on Renaissance studies."
Marco fell silent, bewildered. Since when did Romano Group give a damn about Renaissance art?
"What's the budget cap, boss?"
"No limit."
After hanging up, Alex stared at the glittering cityscape, his eyes completely lifeless.
Once again, he entered the therapist's office.
The office's stark simplicity jarred against every environment he frequented.
No priceless art. No handcrafted Italian furniture.
Just two chairs, a coffee table, and a woman with an unreadable expression.
"What do you think love is?"
Dr. Evans's question cut straight to the bone.
Alex went quiet.
He stared at his hands—hands that had signed billion-dollar deals without trembling.
Before, he would have answered without hesitation: love meant giving, protecting, removing obstacles.
Now, those answers stuck in his throat like stones.
For months, he'd come here weekly.
Layer by layer, he'd peeled back his armor.
He saw the fifteen-year-old boy in ill-fitting discount suits, faking confidence after his family's financial collapse.
He saw himself swearing to reclaim everything, to crush anyone in his path.
He saw his pathological need to "save" others.
That wasn't love.
That was compensation for past powerlessness.
"What do you think love is?"
Months later, Dr. Evans asked the same question.
Alex looked up as sunlight filtered through the blinds, dappling his face with light and shadow.
"Before, I thought love was giving."
His voice was quiet but carried newfound certainty.
"Now I know love is appreciation."
Dr. Evans nodded. "And?"
"What if Emma never needs you again?"
The question struck his core fear.
But Alex smiled.
A genuine smile, stripped of all defenses.
"Then I'll love the Emma who never needs me."
"That's when love becomes real."
At a charity gala, Alex drew the usual attention.
A young woman clutching a wineglass approached him nervously.
Her name was Lily—a brilliant pianist whose family troubles threatened her Juilliard acceptance.
Her eyes held that familiar vulnerability—talent mixed with desperation.
She was the perfect rescue candidate.
Old habits whispered in his ear like ghosts.
Alex simply listened until she finished speaking.
Then he pulled out a business card and handed it to her.
"This foundation specifically supports young musicians. Their review process is rigorous but fair."
His tone remained kind but established clear boundaries.
"Your talent will speak for itself."
Surprise flickered across her face, followed by genuine gratitude.
"Thank you, Mr. Romano."
Alex watched her walk away, no longer feeling that godlike rush of power.
Only peace remained.
He had done it.
He had conquered the Alex who needed to save others to save himself.
