The doctor had given him enough time. More than enough. Weeks of carefully rationed silence, a thin buffer he'd tried to stretch like gauze over a wound that refused to close. But now the truth was out, and no amount of begging or bargaining could reel it back.
Adam stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, the cityscape a blur of gray and chrome beyond the glass. His reflection stared back at him — jaw tight, sleeves rolled up, fists pressed against the window ledge. The muted hum of traffic below only made the room feel emptier. The clock on the credenza ticked too loudly, each second like a drop of water in a cavern.
Behind him, Caiden cleared his throat softly. "Sir," he said. "She left the clinic. She drove straight to her old house."
The words cut through Adam like a blade. His fists curled slowly, knuckles whitening until they trembled. "She didn't even call," he muttered under his breath. "Not a single text."
