The office was quieter now.

Raymond Santillan's desk was bare except for a silver pen and a folder labeled "Transition Notes." His nameplate had already been removed, his inbox forwarded. His final day at Santillan & Co. was just that - final.

But even in his exit, he couldn't shake her.

Gigi Santiago.

The girl who refused to flinch.

The strategist who unseated every man in the room without raising her voice.

The woman who didn't just say no - she meant it.

He watched her once, from the glass balcony near the elevator. She was in the atrium, laughing with her team, radiant in a maroon blazer and heels like she'd won the war and barely broke a sweat doing it.

That was the last time he saw her.

He didn't say goodbye.

She didn't offer one.

Raymond sat in his empty office, half-packed suitcase beside him, and scrolled through his gallery. He found the photo he took the day she first presented her campaign - her eyes blazing with fire, chin tilted just slightly. He'd never shown her the picture. He didn't need to.

She didn't belong in a man's phone.

She belonged to herself.

And he - he had never known what to do with a woman like that.

He thought back to the night they kissed. The heat of it. The pull. The moment his hand touched her wrist and she didn't pull away - not at first. She'd let him in for a second. Just one.

And he blew it.

Because what he wanted wasn't her truth. It was control.

It was the idea of her.

He could admit that now.

There had been a version of him - years ago, maybe - that might've been able to meet her where she stood. A man who wasn't so used to winning that he mistook curiosity for intimacy. But that man had been buried under years of power plays and shallow charm.

And now?

Now, Raymond was just a man with a passport and no roots.

A man who realized too late that not all women want to be chased.

Some just want to be seen.

Fully. Quietly. Without needing to be conquered.

He opened his laptop and drafted an unsent email:

Subject: No Response Needed

I think about you more than I should.

Not in the way you'd fear - there's no agenda here, no schemes.

Just? regret.

Not because you didn't choose me.

But because when I had the chance,

I didn't choose the right version of me.

You deserved more than interest.

You deserved honor.

I hope the man in your life gives you that - daily.

- R

He didn't hit send.

Instead, he closed the laptop, stood, and walked to the elevator for the last time.

As the doors slid shut, he caught one last glimpse of the office. The glass, the lights, the empire he built.

But what echoed in his mind wasn't profit margins or campaigns.

It was the words she left him with:

"I'm not choosing him over you. I'm choosing me."

That was the moment he lost her.

And now, Raymond Santillan would carry that silence to every city he moved to - each skyline reminding him not of Gigi's rejection, but of his failure to rise.

What a waste.

Not of love.

But of potential.

And some regrets don't chase you.

They wait - on rooftops you'll never return to.