The doctor had given him enough time. More than enough. Weeks of carefully rationed silence — a thin buffer stretched like gauze over a wound that refused to close. But now the truth was out, and no amount of bargaining could reel it back.
Adam stood at the floor-to-ceiling window of his office, the city a blur of gray and chrome beyond the glass. His reflection stared back — jaw tight, sleeves rolled, fists pressed to the window ledge. The muted hum of traffic only made the room feel emptier. The clock on the credenza ticked too loudly, each second falling like a drop of water into 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, knuckles whitening. "She didn't even call," he muttered. "Not a single text."
Caiden shifted but kept his gaze lowered. "Do you want me to approach her?"
