(Joseph POV)
The office was too quiet.
Not the productive kind of quiet—the kind that sharpened focus and cleared the mind—but the hollow kind that pressed against the walls and echoed back every thought you didn't want to hear.
I sat behind my desk, sleeves rolled up, jacket draped neatly over the chair behind me. The city skyline stretched beyond the glass, familiar and unmoving, like it had decided to keep going even if something inside me had stalled.
The reports in front of me were impeccable.
Quarterly projections exceeded expectations. Expansion schedules were on track. Investor confidence remained high. Everything that was supposed to reassure a CEO sat neatly organized within arm's reach.
I read the same paragraph for the third time and realized I hadn't absorbed a word.
My gaze drifted to the clock on the wall.
Sixteen forty-five.
Without thinking, my mind recalculated.
Paris would be… what. Almost eleven at night?
