Page 11 of The Clifftop Cottage

She clicked.

Messages stacked one on top of the other. Urgent. Following up. Just circling back. Normally, she prided herself on never letting it get like this. Control had always been her thing. Now it felt like something she’d misplaced entirely.

Another email from Jenna.

Let’s reconnect!

She snorted softly and didn’t open it. A freelancer she barely remembered – someone who hovered, pitching ideas that never quite landed. Not tonight.

She scrolled, paused, flexing her fingers over the keyboard.

And then she saw it.

Steven.

Just one email. No exclamation marks. No urgency. Somehow worse.

Her chest tightened as she clicked it open.

Subject: Moving Forward

Dear Erica,

I’m sorry things had to turn out this way. We built this business from nothing together, and we always said that if either of us had doubts or a change of heart, we’d voice it.

We’re married, yes, but we’re also partners – at least, we were. I know the business means as much to you as it does to me, but it’s not just yours. I’m 50% of it, and since your departure, I’ve had sponsors and clients chasing me.

It didn’t help that you said those awful things to that interviewer. What the business was is not what it is now. The audience wants more – stories that educate, inspire, and explore greatness. It’s what they’re asking for. I’ve discussed this with everyone involved, and the consensus is that I should carry on.

You almost destroyed everything we built, Erica. Your outbursts, your temper – people saw how badly you were coping. So, please, get better. Take care of yourself. But don’t worry about the business – I’ll handle it.

I’ll have my lawyers contact you soon about buying out your share. I hope you’ll accept.

Take care,

Steven

P.S. Are you staying at your sister’s?

Erica closed the laptop carefully, as though sudden movement might break something.

Her hands were shaking.

Hadn’t he always been good at this? Making things sound reasonable. Inevitable. As if events had simply unfolded, rather than been guided there.

She pressed her palms to her eyes and breathed through the ache in her chest. She had known this was coming. Or at least, she’d sensed it – that dull, persistent unease she’d refused to name. Better not to look. Not to see her own name turned into a warning.

After a moment, she opened the laptop again.

Typed her name into the search bar.

The results came instantly.

Clips. Headlines. Reels.

Not the work she’d poured herself into. Not the long nights, the precision, the careful choices that had built something from nothing. Not the messages from women who said she’d made them braver, more ambitious.

One reel caught her eye.