The first thing I saw when I open my eyes is the city skyline. The lights outside my office window are dimming, the first signs of morning brushing against the glass. My neck feels stiff, my back sore. I must have fallen asleep at my desk again.
For a long moment, I just sat there, staring at the faint reflection of myself on the windowpane. The jacket on the armrest, the papers spread across the table, the untouched coffee now cold. Everything looks exactly how I left it last night precise, lifeless, efficient.
I reached for my phone. Dozens of missed calls. I scrolled absently through them, my thumb slowing when I saw the message from the butler. It was sent yesterday morning.
"Good morning, sir. Mrs. Rose has left for her hometown to visit her grandmother for the weekend. She mentioned she'll call once she arrives."
For a few seconds, I couldn't seem to move. The screen light fades, and I'm left staring at my own reflection in the dark glass. She left yesterday.
A hollow feeling spreads slowly through my chest. I should have known. I should have checked my phone. But yesterday was a storm I couldn't step away from meetings, press statements, and that damned media uproar about the antibiotics division. Every minute was spoken for, every call a demand. Somewhere between all that noise, she left for the weekend, and I didn't notice.
I lean back in the chair, rubbing my temple with two fingers. My head aches, but it's the silence that bothers me most. The kind that feels heavier than sound.
I can almost see her leaving 6the quiet footsteps, the butler at the door, her suitcase gliding over the floor. No drama, no raised voice. Just distance, made permanent by the simple act of walking away.
I pick up the phone again and stare at her name. Rose. It looks too small for what she means.
I tell myself she only went for the weekend, that she'll be back. But I know her well enough to sense what this really is space. The kind she takes when words fail and emotions burn too hot to touch. I gave her reasons to leave, and then I buried myself in work before I could fix them.
I press the intercom. My secretary answers instantly, as efficient as always.
"Good morning, Mr. Maxwell."
"Morning," I reply, my voice calm but low. "I need you to arrange a delivery."
"Of course."
"Send a few thoughtful gifts and some flowers to Rose's grandmother. Add a short note something polite, from me. Make sure they're delivered today."
"Yes, sir. And the media issue?"
I pause, my eyes drifting to the window again. "Any updates?"
"The reports are clearing up. Your publicist handled the interviews well. Sentiment's improving. It should be under control before noon."
"Good," I say, though the word feels empty. "Keep it that way."
She acknowledges softly, and I end the call.
The phone is still warm in my hand when I open our chat hers and mine. I scroll past weeks of messages, most of them hers. Small things. Don't forget lunch. Call me when you're done with the board meeting. I'll wait up.
I never realized how often I didn't answer.
I stared at the blank text field, fingers hovering over the keyboard. My first instinct was to say something practical, something neat and emotionless, an apology disguised as a statement. But that won't do this time.
I type slowly.
"I just saw the message from the butler. I hope you arrived safely. I sent a few things for your grandmother. Once you're back, we'll talk and fix what needs fixing. I mean that."
I read it twice before hitting send. It's simple, careful, controlled exactly how I'm used to communicating. But behind those words is something that feels unfamiliar: hope.
I set the phone down and let out a long breath. The morning light has shifted now, painting the office gold. It should feel like a new day, a clean start. Instead, it feels like I'm standing still while everything else moves on.
Discipline has always been my compass. I built my empire with it. Every habit, every rule, every hour accounted for. There was comfort in precision. Predictability. Yet, somewhere between deadlines and negotiations, I forgot how to be human with the one person who mattered most.
I can't undo that with a single message.
The minutes pass quietly. I started signing documents, answering calls, giving instructions. On the surface, everything is in order. But my mind keeps drifting to her to the way she used to place a cup of coffee beside my laptop, even when we weren't speaking, or how she'd open the curtains in the morning just to let the light in.
Now, the office feels darker without her.
Around midday, my secretary informs me that the gifts and flowers were successfully delivered. I thank her and go back to work, pretending that's enough. But it isn't. It's a gesture thoughtful, yes, but distant. Like everything I do.
By evening, I was still at my desk. The city outside is alive again, traffic lights flickering like restless thoughts. I check my phone one more time. No new messages. The silence doesn't surprise me, but it stings all the same.
I think about calling her. Then I stop myself. She needs space, and I owe her that.
So instead, I closed my laptop, gathered my things, and head for the door. As I walk down the hallway, I realize how strange it feels to leave the office before midnight. Maybe that's the first step choosing to go home, even if home feels empty without her.