Sweet Love 2x: Miss Ruthless CEO for our Superstar Uncle-Chapter 120: You Chose Alone

The afternoon light fell differently across the upper floors of the Rochefort building in winter. It did not flood the office the way it did in spring or summer; instead, it settled in narrow planes along the glass, pale and thin, reflecting more sky than warmth.

From her desk, Arianne could see the faint outline of the river in the distance, steel-gray beneath a low cloud cover. The executive floor beyond her office had already quieted, conversations lowered to end-of-business tones, footsteps softened against the carpet as doors closed one by one.

She was reviewing the updated guest confirmations when a knock sounded at her door—steady, neither hesitant nor rushed.

"Come in," she said without looking up.

Gilbert entered and closed the door behind him before crossing the room. He carried a folder, though she doubted paperwork was the real reason for his visit. His coat was gone; he had not come prepared to leave immediately.

"You’re still here," he said.

"I am," she answered. She finished the line she was reading, then set her pen down. "You didn’t come just to tell me that."

He set the folder at the edge of her desk, not right in front of her. "Two more confirmations. One decline."

Arianne glanced at it but didn’t open it. "That could’ve been sent."

"It could have."

Gilbert stayed where he was. He didn’t turn to leave. The pale winter light hit the side of his face, making his expression harder to read, though his purpose was still clear.

Arianne leaned back in her chair and studied him.

"You didn’t come here about the seating list."

"I came because I had time."

"You don’t waste time," she said.

Something flickered across his face—small, almost gone before it settled.

"You think I’m always calculating."

"You are." There was no edge to it. Just something learned over years.

The light caught the side of his face. She watched him not answer.

Instead of taking a seat, he walked to the window. He linked his hands behind his back and looked out. In the glass, their reflections overlapped—the quiet city behind him, the soft glow of her desk lamp stretching over neat stacks of paper.

She didn’t circle around it.

"You saw Audrey."

He remained facing the skyline. "Yes."

"You spoke to her."

"We didn’t speak," he said after a second. "We acknowledged each other."

"That’s not the same thing."

"No."

The silence sat between them.

Arianne opened the folder, glanced at the first page without really taking it in, then closed it again.

"You ended it five years ago," she said, calm as ever. "Not because it fell apart. Because you chose to."

He turned toward her—not abrupt, but fully present now. "I ended it because I thought it was necessary."

"You thought she couldn’t stand next to you."

"I thought," he said, stepping away from the window, "that she deserved the chance to build her name without it being tied to mine. She was a junior reporter. Every article would’ve been questioned. Every promotion credited to me. Every mistake blown up. I wasn’t going to let that happen."

"And you asked her what she wanted?"

"She said she didn’t mind."

"And you believed her?"

He met her eyes and didn’t look away. "I thought she didn’t understand what it would cost."

"You decided she was wrong."

"I decided she shouldn’t have to spend her career proving she earned it—not because of me."

Arianne did not interrupt immediately. She watched the tension along his shoulders, the controlled set of his jaw.

"You protected her from something she was willing to face," she said at last. "That isn’t protection, Gil. That’s control."

Gilbert’s jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. He took the chair opposite her desk and sat upright, forearms resting on his knees rather than leaning back.

"You think I controlled her."

"I think you removed her choice."

The distinction lingered between them.

He exhaled slowly and glanced once toward the darkening skyline. "If I had stayed, her work would have been filtered through my name. You know that."

"I know what people would have said," she replied, adjusting the alignment of the folder as she spoke. "I also know she is capable of handling it."

"She was twenty-five."

"And you were thirty."

"That was the problem." His jaw tightened slightly after he said it, like he already knew she wouldn’t agree.

"No," Arianne said, calm but firm. "That was the excuse."

The hum of the building filled the space between them. Neither moved to close it.

She didn’t raise her voice. She didn’t need to.

The silence that followed wasn’t loud, but it carried weight. The faint hum of the building filled the space neither of them moved to close.

After a moment, he spoke again. "I read what she writes."

He said it carefully—like he’d been meaning to admit that for a while.

"I assumed you did."

Arianne folded her hands loosely on the desk, watching him without pressing.

"She’s precise. She doesn’t exaggerate. She doesn’t waste words." He continued.

There was something close to respect in the way he listed it.

"She never did." Arianne agreed.

A small pause followed, memory passing quietly between them.

"She wrote about you without leaning either way."

He glanced at her, as if checking whether she’d noticed.

"I noticed." Arianne’s answer came without hesitation.

"She didn’t protect you."

The words hung there, not accusation—just fact.

"She shouldn’t."

Arianne held his gaze this time.

A faint, almost reluctant smile touched his face before fading. He looked down at his hands, flexing his fingers once as if grounding himself.

"She’s not the same as she was."

There was no regret in it. Just recognition.

"No," Arianne agreed. "She isn’t."

Her voice softened by a fraction.

He lifted his eyes again. "Neither are you."

Gilbert studied her a moment longer before speaking. The light had shifted; his face was harder to read now.

"In what way?"

He leaned back slightly, studying her more openly now. "You let someone close enough to stop you."

Arianne did not feign misunderstanding. She knew who he was talking about. "Yes."

"That wasn’t something you allowed before." Gilbert pointed out.

"I didn’t trust anyone to know when to stop me."

"And now?"

"Now I do."

The words sat there. He didn’t respond immediately. Just nodded once.

The answer carried no hesitation. Arianne met his gaze. 𝑓𝑟𝑒𝘦𝓌𝑒𝑏𝑛𝑜𝘷𝑒𝘭.𝒸𝘰𝑚

He absorbed it without comment, then said quietly, "You think I should call her."

"I think," she replied, her fingers resting lightly against the closed folder, "you should stop deciding what she can and cannot handle."

Gilbert sighed. "You make it sound simple, Aria."

"It isn’t simple. It’s honest."

The winter light thinned further across the glass.

"If I call her, it changes things," he said.

"Things have already changed," she answered. "You just haven’t responded."

A quiet breath left him—almost a laugh. "You’re more direct than you used to be."

"I don’t have time to be indirect."

"That’s not what I meant."

"I know."

He turned fully toward her. "You don’t avoid personal subjects anymore."

"No."

"Why?"

Arianne considered the question briefly—not because she lacked an answer, but because she chose which one to give.

"Because avoiding them didn’t make them disappear," she said. "It only delayed them."

"That’s not how you operated before."

"No."

Gilbert studied her carefully. "Does it feel different?"

"Yes."

"In what way?"

She folded her hands lightly on the desk, the gesture intentional rather than defensive. "I don’t feel like I’m holding everything alone."

With Franz, she never had to think twice or doubt herself.

Gilbert did not respond immediately.

"That’s not something you ever admitted."

"I wasn’t admitting it then."

He nodded once.

"You’re certain."

"Yes."

"There’s no hesitation."

"No."

The conversation didn’t rise in volume, but it drew tighter, like a thread pulled slowly between them.

"You don’t think I’m hesitating?" he asked. Gilbert’s voice stayed level, though it took effort.

Arianne nodded once.

"I think you are." She said it without hesitation.

"Because I haven’t called her."He already knew the answer, but asked anyway.

"Because you’re still explaining your decision instead of questioning it."

She kept her eyes on him, steady and clear.

"I don’t regret protecting her."

The words came quickly.

"I didn’t ask if you regretted it." Arianne retorted.

There was no heat in her tone. That almost made it sharper.

Gilbert leaned forward a little, his usual control thinning at the edges. "You think I was wrong."

"I think you decided alone."

She didn’t soften it.

Gilbert dragged a hand through his hair — quick, restless, unlike him.

"She didn’t argue," he said. This time it sounded less like defense and more like something he was still trying to understand.

"Maybe she trusted you too much."

The implication settled.

"You believe she would have stayed." He grimaced.

"I believe she would have chosen."

The office fell quiet again as the winter light shifted into early dusk.

After a moment, he stood. "You make it sound as though I’ve been hiding."

"You have."

"From what?"

"From the possibility that she doesn’t need your protection."

He adjusted his jacket and moved toward the door, pausing with his hand on the handle.

"You’ve changed, Aria."

"I’ve adjusted."

"To what?"

"To not pretending I don’t need anyone."

He held her gaze a moment longer, then gave a small nod. He didn’t ask her to explain. He didn’t need to.

"Call her," Arianne said. It wasn’t an order. It wasn’t pressure. It sounded final.

Gilbert left without replying.

The door shut softly behind him, and the quiet in the building seemed to sink a little deeper.

Arianne stayed seated for a few seconds, eyes resting on nothing in particular. Then she stood and walked to the window. She stopped just short of the glass. Her reflection overlapped the steel-gray buildings outside and the thin line of river beyond them.

The sky had darkened. What little winter light remained had faded into dusk.

On her desk, the unopened confirmations sat exactly where he had left them.

She didn’t look back at them.

She remained at the window, her reflection blending into the skyline, still and composed as evening settled over the city.