The movie played, but I couldn't tell you what it was about. Something loud, something funny—I barely registered any of it. My eyes were fixed on the screen, sure, but my mind was somewhere else entirely. Every minute stretched like it had something personal against me, dragging itself out just to remind me how slow time could be when you were alone.

At one point, I glanced at the clock on the wall and frowned. 2:46 p.m. I swore it stayed that way for five minutes straight. I checked again. Still 2:46. Maybe I was tired. Maybe I wasn't reading it right. Or maybe that's just what happens when you miss someone so much—time itself starts mocking you.

I didn't want to let it win. Didn't want to sit here, rotting in silence, letting my thoughts spiral back to her over and over again. So by three, I shut the TV off, opened my laptop, and pulled up work.

Numbers didn't play games. They didn't shift or blur or taunt you with what you couldn't have. If you did the math right, if you traced the logic carefully, they rewarded you with answers. And at Gray & Milton, that was everything—precision, efficiency, solutions. If I couldn't quiet my mind, then I could at least sharpen it.

And for a while, it worked. I lost myself in formulas, spreadsheets, and notes. Concepts I'd been meaning to refine, strategies I wanted to test—I buried myself in them. Each line, each calculation gave me something steady to hold onto, something real.

Before I knew it, hours had passed. My eyes stung from staring at the screen, my fingers cramped slightly from typing. When I finally leaned back, the clock on my laptop read 7:03 p.m.

Right then, my phone rang.

Her name lit up my screen, bold and glowing, along with the heart emojis I'd saved it under: The Love of My Life ❤️❤️ Celestia Valentina Moreau.

I didn't hesitate. My hand shot out like if I waited a second too long, the call would vanish, slip away like a dream.

Her face filled my screen, bright as ever, even with the slightly grainy quality of video calls.

"Evening, husband," she greeted, her smile smug, eyes glinting with mischief.

I felt my chest ease instantly. "Evening, love. Were you able to handle that package you got earlier?"

She nodded, quick, like she'd been waiting for me to ask. Then she tilted her head, lips twitching upward. "You want to know what the package was, don't you?"

"You have no idea," I answered immediately, so fast I cut into her words.

She giggled, shaking her head. "It's for my master's. Some of the materials I'll need for my thesis—archives, journals, resources you can't exactly get without begging professors or waiting until halfway through the program. But if you have the money…" She gave a little shrug, smirking. "You can get ahead."

I nodded, listening, though half of me was still caught up in how she looked. She could've been talking about the weather and I'd still be hooked.

Her eyes flicked past me then, toward the glow of my screen. "You're working."

"Not really," I said, scratching the back of my neck. "Just trying to—"

The video froze.

Her face was caught mid-expression, lips slightly parted, eyes stuck in motion. I frowned. "Val?"

Nothing.

"Can you hear me?"

Still nothing. My own voice echoed back at me a second later, distorted through the lag.

"Hello? Val? Can you see me?"

For a second her image flickered, her voice cutting in and out. "—Kai?—hear—hello?"

"Yeah, I'm here. Can you—" The call dropped before I could finish.

I slumped back, groaning. "Great. Now even the internet's against me."

The silence that followed was worse than before. I glanced at my laptop, the spreadsheet still open, numbers waiting for me to come back. But after that call, there was no way I could focus.

I shut it down, the click of the lid closing echoing in the quiet room. The night wasn't late yet—barely creeping past seven-thirty—but it already felt endless. With nothing else to do, I dragged myself toward the bed and lay down, staring at the ceiling until my eyes slid shut.

And even then, the silence didn't let me rest.

---

The next morning found me back behind my desk at Gray & Milton, suit pressed, files stacked neatly in front of me. The office was already humming with the usual rhythm—phones ringing, keyboards tapping, conversations bleeding in and out of the halls.

When I woke up earlier, my first instinct had been to call Val. My hand actually reached for the phone before my brain caught up. By then, though, she would've been in class. I didn't want to be the reason she got distracted, so I held myself.

I was a few minutes into work, reviewing a client's numbers, when my phone buzzed on the desk. A message from Mr. Clarkson's secretary: Mr. Clarkson would like to see you in his office.

I stood, straightened my tie, and made the short walk down the hall. When I stepped inside, the first thing I noticed was that I wasn't the only one there.

Tasha sat opposite Mr. Clarkson, her posture as impeccable as ever, her luxury-brand notebook open on her lap. She looked up briefly when I entered, then returned her gaze to the papers in front of her.

"Kai," Mr. Clarkson said, gesturing toward the seat beside her. "Good timing. Sit."

"Yes, sir." I slid into the chair, setting my file down.

He laced his fingers together on the desk, giving me the kind of look that always made you feel like you were about to be weighed and measured. "There's a client matter I want the two of you to handle. Simple enough—presentation of preliminary strategies, followed by some clarifications. Nothing you can't handle."

"Yes, sir," Tasha replied smoothly, almost before he finished.

I nodded. "Of course."

Clarkson's eyes flicked toward me, and the corner of his mouth curved. "And Kai—your GPA, combined with that Ivy League name, makes you a good image for the firm. Clients love credentials, and yours speak louder than most."

I felt the compliment but kept my tone professional. "Thank you, sir. I'll do my best."

"Good." He leaned back in his chair. "That's all I wanted. I trust you both to handle it. Keep me updated."

"Yes, sir," we echoed together.

I rose with Tasha, giving Clarkson a respectful nod before we stepped out of his office. For a moment, we walked in silence, our footsteps clicking evenly against the polished tile.

Her car was parked in the company lot—a sleek black Mercedes E-Class sedan. She unlocked it with a beep, and we slid inside.

I buckled my seatbelt as she did the same. But before she even touched the ignition, she turned toward me, eyes steady, curious. Like this was a question she'd been holding onto for a while. "Are you really married?"

The seatbelt pressed across my chest as I froze, my hand halfway to resting on my knee. I blinked, turning my head slowly to face her.

"…Where is that coming from?"

Her gaze didn't waver, and for the first time that morning, I realized this drive might not be as straightforward as the assignment.

---

To be continued...

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