CASSIAN
I checked my phone for what felt like the hundredth time, even though only five minutes had passed since the last. 9:40 PM glared back at me in bright, indifferent numbers. Still no response.
The documents spread across my desk, thick contracts, glossy architectural renderings, and the preliminary financials for the Hendrix development looked like props rather than work.
I couldn't process a single line. My attention kept circling back to the same point: the phone, the silence, the creeping irritation that had been tightening slowly around my spine like a fist.
Three and half hours ago I'd sent him the message.
Clear, specific, impossible to misunderstand.
Pack for three weeks. Business trip to Spain. Hendrix development project. Flight at 10 PM. Don't be late.
Nothing about it was optional. He knew that. He knew exactly how I operated, exactly what defiance cost, exactly where he stood with me. And yet… nothing.
