Give Up Loving Him and Start Over

The HaleTech March fundraising gala glittered with promise. Crystal chandeliers cast a golden glow over Boston's elite as they mingled, champagne flutes in hand, checkbooks ready.

I smoothed down my simple black dress—the most formal thing I owned—and tried to look like I belonged among the city's power players.

From my position near the refreshment table, I watched Mark work the room. He moved with practiced ease, his hand resting lightly on investors' shoulders, his laugh timed perfectly to maximize impact. The navy suit he wore tonight made his blue eyes even more striking, and I found myself holding my breath each time he glanced in my direction.

"Miss Lewis," Julian Croft's voice cut through my thoughts as he appeared beside me, champagne sloshing in his glass. Mark's friend had never bothered to hide his disdain for me. "Quite the turnout tonight. Mark's really pulled out all the stops."

I nodded politely, not trusting myself to speak. Julian's eyes were already drifting back to Mark, who had moved to the center of the room.

"Look at him," Julian continued, his voice carrying just enough for nearby guests to hear. "Boston's golden boy. Women practically throw themselves at his feet."

I felt heat rise to my cheeks but kept my expression neutral. "Mr. Hale has worked hard for his success."

"Oh, I'm sure he has," Julian replied with a smirk. "In more ways than one."

Something in his tone made me glance back at Mark. For the first time that evening, his confident demeanor seemed fractured. He was checking his phone repeatedly, his expression growing tenser with each glance at the screen.

Across the room, Sarah Jenkins—my direct supervisor—caught my eye and frowned. She whispered something to her companion, who pulled out her phone, gasped, and quickly showed it to Sarah. Their eyes darted to Mark, then to me.

"What's happening?" I asked as Sarah approached.

"Mercy," she began, her voice carefully controlled. "Perhaps we should discuss this tomorrow."

"Discuss what?"

She hesitated, then sighed. "There are some... photos of Mark online. With Isabelle Vance."

My stomach dropped. "Isabelle Vance? The model?"

"They were at some restaurant in New York last weekend. Very... intimate photos." Sarah's eyes held a mixture of pity and discomfort. "The problem is, Isabelle is publicly dating Richard Harrison. The pharmaceutical CEO."

The room suddenly felt too hot, too crowded. I watched as Mark's phone buzzed again. This time, when he looked at it, I could see the color drain from his face.

"I should go," I murmured, setting down my untouched champagne.

The next morning arrived with a weight of dread I couldn't shake. The office buzzed with hushed conversations that stopped whenever I entered a room. The photos had spread overnight—Mark and Isabelle in what appeared to be a private dinner that had suddenly become very public.

I was organizing his morning briefing materials when he appeared at my desk. His usual confident stride was gone, replaced by a purposeful directness that made my heart race.

"Mercy," he said quietly, glancing around to ensure no one was listening. "Can you stay late tonight? I need to speak with you privately."

My hands trembled slightly as I nodded. "Of course."

"Good." He straightened his tie, a gesture I'd come to recognize as his way of composing himself. "Seven o'clock. My office."

All day, I wondered what could be so important that it required after-hours privacy. By seven, the office had emptied, and I sat nervously at my desk until Mark emerged from his office.

"Thank you for staying," he said, gesturing for me to follow him inside. "I need your help with something... sensitive."

I perched on the edge of the chair across from his desk, my back straight, hands folded in my lap.

"There's a charity gala this Saturday," he began, leaning forward. "For children's cancer research. I'm expected to attend."

I nodded. The invitation had crossed my desk last week.

"I need someone trustworthy by my side," he continued, his eyes meeting mine with an intensity that made my breath catch. "Someone who understands discretion. Someone who can help me navigate this... situation."

"Situation?"

"The photos," he said, running a hand through his hair. "They're causing problems with certain investors. The timing couldn't be worse."

"Oh," I said softly, understanding dawning. "You need someone to help with damage control."

"I need you, Mercy." The way he said my name—like it was something precious—sent warmth flooding through me. "Would you consider accompanying me? As a professional favor?"

I should have heard the calculated request behind his words. I should have recognized the careful framing of this as a business necessity rather than anything personal. But all I heard was that Mark Hale needed me—specifically me—when he was facing his darkest moment.

"Yes," I whispered. "I'd be honored."

His relief was palpable as he smiled—that rare, genuine smile that reached his eyes. "Thank you, Mercy. I knew I could count on you."

The next few days passed in a blur of preparation. I spent my entire paycheck on a midnight blue dress that made me feel like I was stepping into someone else's life. Eleanor at the salon near my apartment styled my hair into elegant waves that framed my face.

"You look beautiful," she said as I stared at my reflection in disbelief. "Where are you headed tonight?"

"A charity gala," I replied, hardly recognizing my own voice. "With my boss."

The gala was held in the grand ballroom of the Fairmont Copley Plaza. As our taxi pulled up to the entrance, Mark turned to me, his hand covering mine.

"Ready?" he asked.

I nodded, though my heart hammered against my ribs.

Inside, flashbulbs popped as we entered. Mark's hand found the small of my back, guiding me through the crowd with practiced ease. Then, in front of a wall of photographers, he took my hand in his.

"This is Mercy Lewis," he announced to the nearest reporter, his voice warm with an emotion I couldn't quite place. "Someone very special to me."

The cameras flashed brighter as his words washed over me. Someone very special to him.

In that moment, surrounded by the glittering elite of Boston society, with Mark Hale's hand in mine and his words echoing in my ears, I felt something I'd never experienced before—the dizzying sensation of truly belonging in his world.

What I didn't see was the calculated gleam in his eye as he smiled for the cameras, or the way his grip on my hand tightened just as the flashes began.