Chapter 11: The Final Reply

Chapter 11: The Final Reply

Six months later, the air in Elara’s office smelled of fresh paint, opportunity, and Rosie’s faint, comforting scent of clean fur. The space was a testament to her new reality. It wasn’t a glass fishbowl in someone else’s tower; it was the sprawling corner suite of Vance Thorne Design, a boutique creative agency that had become the most sought-after name in the city. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline that rivaled, and in Elara's opinion surpassed, the one from Liam's old office. The walls were adorned not with oil paintings of stern-faced men, but with framed awards—including the Gold Lion from Cannes—and the vibrant, dynamic work of her growing team.

Rosie, now the agency’s official Director of Morale, was snoozing on a plush dog bed near the window, her golden fur glowing in the afternoon sun.

The heavy oak door swung open, and Julian walked in, two mugs of coffee in his hands. He no longer wore the severe suits of a rival CEO. Today, he was in dark jeans and a soft cashmere sweater, the sleeves pushed up to his elbows, revealing the intricate lines of the tattoo on his forearm. He had divested from several of his more demanding tech ventures to become a full partner in her agency, claiming he was more interested in building a brand with integrity than he was in another quarter of profit-chasing.

"Fresh pot," he said, setting a mug on her sleek, minimalist desk. "The team from Aura Cosmetics just sent over the final contract. They loved the pitch. Said it was the most authentic brand philosophy they'd ever seen."

Elara smiled, leaning back in her chair. "Authenticity sells," she said, repeating their agency's unofficial motto. It was the principle she had built from the ashes of her viral video—the idea that people craved realness, not the polished, empty perfection Liam and Chloe had tried to sell.

Julian leaned against her desk, his presence easy and grounding. "Speaking of authenticity," he said, his warm grey eyes crinkling at the corners. "Your four o'clock is here. A very eager young influencer who wants us to help her pivot from fast fashion to sustainable living. Says her old brand feels 'out of alignment' with her 'personal journey'."

Elara raised an eyebrow, a laugh bubbling in her throat. The irony was so thick she could taste it. After Chloe's public, self-serving breakup post, a whole wave of influencers had tried to copy her "authenticity" playbook, creating a lucrative new market for the very agency Chloe's ex-boyfriend had inadvertently helped create.

"I'll handle it," she said, taking a sip of coffee. "Maybe I'll tell her the story of a dog who started an empire."

They shared a comfortable silence, the quiet hum of their successful agency filling the space around them. This was her life now. A life built not on supporting someone else's fragile ego, but on her own talent and resilience. A life shared with a man who was her partner in every sense of the word, who celebrated her victories as his own.

She turned back to her computer to pull up the file for her next meeting when an email popped into her inbox. It was from a generic Gmail address, but the name in the preview field made her entire body go still.

Liam Sterling.

Julian noticed the shift immediately. The easy smile left his face, replaced by a quiet watchfulness. "What is it?"

"A ghost," she whispered, her fingers hovering over the trackpad. For a moment, a phantom echo of old pain, of betrayal and heartbreak, reverberated through her. But it was faint, like a song heard from miles away. It held no power over her anymore. It was just a memory. She took a deep breath, met Julian's supportive gaze, and clicked it open.

The email was long. A rambling, pathetic manifesto of self-pity and revisionist history.

Elara,

I don't even know if this will reach you. I had to create this new account because I think you blocked my old one. I guess I can't blame you.

I've been doing a lot of thinking these past few months. I lost everything. My dad… he won't even take my calls. Chloe, well, you saw what happened with her. She's rebranding as some kind of spiritual wellness guru in Bali now. I heard she sold the story of our breakup to a magazine.

I see your company everywhere. Vance Thorne Design. You’re brilliant. I always knew you were. I used to tell everyone that. I think maybe the pressure of being a Sterling got to me. I was trying to be someone I wasn’t. When I was with you, in our little house, things were simple. I was happy then. I know I was.

I made a mistake. The biggest mistake of my life. I was an idiot, a child. I let my father's world corrupt me. But that's not who I really am. The real me is the guy who you used to make pasta for on rainy Sundays, the guy who helped you adopt Rosie.

I'm in therapy now. I'm working on myself. I just want a chance to talk. To apologize for everything. To see if there’s any part of you that remembers the good times. Maybe we could get a coffee. For old times' sake. Please, Elara. I miss you. I miss our life.

She read it twice. The first time, her mind registered the litany of excuses, the complete lack of genuine ownership, the transparent attempt to reclaim a piece of her success by invoking a past he had willingly burned to the ground. He didn't miss her; he missed the support system she represented. He missed the reflection of himself he used to see in her eyes.

The second time she read it, she felt nothing at all. It was like reading a letter meant for someone else, a woman who had ceased to exist six months ago. That woman would have dissected every word, searched for a hint of sincerity, and felt a pang of misplaced guilt. This Elara, the woman who had stared down a board of sharks and built a company from scratch, simply saw the words for what they were: the last, desperate email from an irrelevant man.

"What are you going to do?" Julian asked softly, not crowding her, but letting her know he was there.

A slow smile spread across Elara's face. "The same thing I did last time," she said. "I'm going to send him a picture of Rosie."

She pulled out her phone and went to her camera roll. She scrolled past photos of her and Julian laughing on a beach in the Hamptons, of her team celebrating their latest award, of blueprints for their office expansion. She was scrolling through a life overflowing with joy and success.

Then she found it.

It was a photo she had taken just last weekend. They had been in the countryside, and the late afternoon sun was casting long, golden rays across a vast, green field. In the center of the frame, Rosie, a blur of pure, unadulterated bliss, was caught mid-air, leaping joyfully to catch a bright red ball. Her ears were flying back, her mouth was open in a happy dog-grin, and every muscle in her body was coiled with freedom and life.

It was the perfect antithesis to the hundreds of photos she had sent before—the static, earthbound, humiliating images of a dog performing a necessary function. This was a picture of liberation. Of a happy, healthy creature living its best life, unburdened by the past.

She attached the photo to a blank reply email. No subject. No text. The image was the entire message. It said everything she needed to say: We are free. We are happy. We are thriving without you. This is our life now. Move on.

She hit send.

Then, without a moment's hesitation, she clicked the dropdown menu next to his new email address and selected the option that read Block this user. A small confirmation box popped up. She clicked 'OK'.

A quiet ding from her computer confirmed the action. He was gone. A digital ghost, exorcised with a single click.

She took a deep breath and let it out slowly, a profound sense of peace settling over her. Her revenge was finally, truly complete. Not because Liam was miserable—that was merely a consequence. It was complete because she was happy. It was complete because his pathetic attempt to crawl back into her life was nothing more than a minor annoyance, a piece of spam to be deleted and blocked.

She turned her chair to face Julian, a genuine, unburdened smile lighting up her face. Rosie, sensing the shift in mood, trotted over and rested her head on Elara’s knee.

"So," Elara said, her voice clear and bright, the past now firmly where it belonged. "Tell me about this influencer."