Page 84 of Please, Forgive Me
“Of course. It’s my last day, and I’m getting paid for it,” I said evenly, though a small spark of frustration flared inside me.
“You seem different,” he observed suddenly, his voice softer now.
The tension in his features eased, and for the first time in weeks, he almost looked like he wanted a real conversation.
I forced myself to focus on the papers on his desk, pretending to skim through a report so I wouldn’t have to meet his eyes. That tone—almost normal, almost kind—threw me off balance.
But no. He couldn’t just erase months of chaos with one casual remark.
“I don’t see how I could be the same, Diego,” I said, keeping my voice steady. “Not after everything.”
“So… you’re still going?” he asked again, and this time, it sounded more like a request than a command.
“I am.” My answer came short, almost automatic.
Inside, I was exhausted by this endless push and pull between us—this constant game of power he refused to stop playing.
His eyes narrowed, searching for something—a flicker of hesitation, defiance, anything.
He always played to win.
But I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction of seeing me falter. I stayed composed, waiting for whatever came next.
To my surprise, he simply nodded, his gaze lingering on me for a few seconds before he leaned back in his chair—a silent signal that the conversation was over.
I walked back to my desk, emotions swirling inside me.
Part of me was relieved that the encounter had been brief. The other part… still uneasy.
My boss wasn’t the kind of man who let go easily. And I knew that until the very last minute of that Sunday workshop, he’d make sure to remind me that, one way or another, he still had some measure of control over me.
I pushed those thoughts away as I sat down again.
This chapter was almost over, and I needed to end it with dignity.
Because, in the end, a woman’s strength isn’t about avoiding the fight—it’s about facing it head-on, with courage.
CHAPTER 34
“Time doesn’t heal all wounds, but it teaches us how to live with them…”
DIEGO BITTENCOURT
Today was the last event Maria Gabriela would be working for me, and I still didn’t know how to feel about it.
The workshop—focused on technological innovation and telecom solutions for the global market—had brought togethermajor executives from the industry. It was a golden opportunity to close deals and strengthen strategic partnerships.
The kind of event that always demanded everything from me—and, of course, from my team.
I should’ve been completely absorbed in the talks and presentations, in the negotiations that would boost our revenue over the coming months. But instead, my mind was somewhere else—or rather, with someone else.
I spotted her the second she walked into the room, wearing a sleek, understated dress that somehow highlighted every detail that drove me crazy.
She wasn’t just there to do what she always did—helping with logistics, making sure everything ran smoothly. She was there for her goodbye.
And to me, she felt as distant as a memory I couldn’t quite touch.
Her face was calm, almost expressionless, yet it was the same Maria Gabriela who’d always managed to catch my attention without even trying. Her dark hair was perfectly pinned up, revealing the delicate line of her neck. And every time she smiled—even if that smile was professional, polite, even forced—I was dragged back into memories of what we’d been and everything we’d gone through.
