His company called within the week. The board wanted him to “take some personal time.” Polite phrasing for exile. “This isn’t permanent,” they said. “We just need distance.” Sponsors pulled their contracts overnight. Investors vanished. The empire he built on charm was collapsing faster than his denial could patch it.
He spent his days pacing through rooms that smelled like her perfume, now faint, ghostly. Her slippers still sat by the door. Every object was a trap—her handwriting on grocery lists, a lipstick stain on a mug. He couldn’t decide which hurt more: her continued absence or the evidence of having been here once.