POV: Jasmine
Liam came home late, the apartment already settled into night, the lights low and the quiet deeper than it had been earlier. Aurora was asleep, her door closed, the soft absence of her voice changing the shape of the space.
I was waiting in the kitchen, not moving, not distracting myself with anything unnecessary, just sitting at the table with my hands folded loosely in front of me. When he stepped in, his attention found me immediately.
“You’re up,” he said, setting his jacket aside without taking his eyes off me.
“I was waiting,” I answered, keeping my voice even.
He nodded once and crossed the room, not rushing, not slowing either, just moving with the kind of steadiness he had when something mattered. He sat across from me, the space between us deliberate and contained.
For a moment, neither of us spoke, the quiet settling between us in a way that didn’t need to be filled. Then he reached into his pocket and took out the letter.
He placed it on the table between us, the paper already worn from being handled earlier, its presence immediate and unmistakable.
“I read it again,” he said.
I didn’t answer, just reached for it and unfolded it carefully, smoothing it against the table as my eyes moved across the handwriting. The words were the same, but they landed differently now.
I read it all the way through without stopping, letting the sentences settle where they needed to before moving on. When I finished, I didn’t fold it back right away.
There was something about seeing it here, in this space, that made it feel more real than it had in the car, less contained, more permanent. I rested my hand lightly on the page before lifting my eyes.
When I looked up, he was watching me, not asking, not pushing, just waiting for what I would say. The silence wasn’t empty, just open in a way that made the next words matter.
“What do you want to do,” I asked, keeping my voice steady.
He didn’t hesitate, didn’t look away, the answer was already decided before I had spoken.
“I want to redirect my energy into the family,” he said.
“I want to be a father first,” he continued, his tone grounded and final in a way that left no room for interpretation. “That’s where I need to be.”
I let that sit for a moment, not reacting immediately, letting the weight of it settle into place before moving forward. It didn’t surprise me, but it changed the structure of everything.
“I want Asher and Finn to run the company,” he said. “I want to stay on the board, but not as CEO.”
The words were clear, not framed as a question or a possibility, but as a decision already made and now shared. I leaned back slightly, taking it in.
“And me,” I said.
He didn’t pause, didn’t reconsider, his answer coming as directly as the rest of it had.
“You are already Chief Creative Producer,” he said.
“You’ve been doing it for years,” he continued, his gaze steady on mine. “It’s time to give you the title.”
I held his gaze for a second longer, not questioning it, but measuring it against what I already knew to be true. It didn’t feel like something new, just something finally acknowledged.
There was a quiet shift in me as he said it out loud, something aligning into place without needing to be pushed. It had always been there, just unnamed.
“What does this mean for Asher,” I asked, shifting the focus to where it would land with the most weight. “Not in theory. In reality.”
“That he steps in fully,” Liam said. “Not temporarily. Not as support. As CEO.”
“And Finn,” I said, keeping the structure intact.
“COO,” he answered. “He already moves like it. This just makes it official.”
We both went quiet for a second, the structure settling into place between us, each part aligning without resistance. It wasn’t hypothetical anymore, it was already forming into something real.
“It works,” I said.
“It does,” he answered.
The conversation shifted then, not in direction but in detail, moving into how it would be said rather than whether it should be. We didn’t rush it, letting each part land properly.
“We tell them together,” I said. “Not one-on-one.”
“At dinner,” Liam replied. “Everyone there.”
I nodded once, the decision settling into something final as we said it out loud, giving it a place to exist outside of thought. It felt right in a way that didn’t need defending.
“Asher needs to hear it in a family context,” I said. “Not a corporate one.”
“He will,” Liam answered. “He deserves that.”
We talked through the shape of it after that, not scripting it, but aligning on what mattered in the way it would be delivered. Nothing about it was performative, and nothing needed to be softened.
“It’s not about stepping back,” I said. “It’s about choosing where you stand.”
He looked at me then, something quieter moving through his expression, something that didn’t need to be named to be understood.
“I know,” he said.
The room held steady again after that, the decisions made, the direction clear enough that we didn’t need to keep circling it. It felt complete without needing to be reinforced.
My phone buzzed on the table, the sound cutting cleanly through the quiet, pulling my attention without asking for it. I glanced down at the screen before I could decide not to.
Asher. One message. I opened it, the words simple, direct, without anything extra around them to soften or explain.
‘Can you come to me tomorrow? Just you.’
I read it once, then again, the simplicity of it carrying more weight than the sentence itself suggested. There was no urgency written into it, but there didn’t need to be.
I lifted my eyes to Liam, the shift already settling into the room between us.
“Asher,” I said.
He nodded once, already understanding enough without needing the full context spelled out.
“What does he want,” he asked.
“I don’t know,” I answered, setting the phone back down without closing the message. The conversation had shifted again, and whatever came next had already begun.