Chapter 4

The silence on the phone was a chasm, deep and absolute. On the other end, I could hear a faint rustling, then Kendal' s muffled voice.

I held the phone to my ear, my knuckles white. My voice, when it came, was unnervingly calm. "Kendal."

No response.

"Do you need me to send a car?" The words were automatic, the professional part of my brain taking over even as the rest of me was shattering.

"...No," she finally said, her voice small. "I' ll be there."

The line went dead. I didn't hang up. She did.

I immediately called the company' s car service and arranged for a pickup at Jaime Hodge' s downtown loft. I knew the address. He was a rising star in the tech world; I' d compiled a dossier on him for Kendal weeks ago.

Then I went back to preparing for the meeting, my movements precise and efficient. I laid out the presentation files, checked the projector, and arranged the coffee service. I was a machine, functioning on pure adrenaline and years of training. Only the slight tremor in my hands and a burning at the corners of my eyes betrayed the turmoil inside.

Kendal swept into the boardroom precisely two minutes before the meeting started, looking flawless and composed. No one would have guessed she' d just rolled out of another man' s bed.

The meeting went smoothly. She was brilliant, as always.

Afterward, I was in my office, preparing the minutes, when she walked in without knocking.

"Brock, about this morning..." she began, her voice soft, ready with an excuse.

"Don' t," I said, cutting her off without looking up from my screen. "I don' t care what you do on your own time."

I finally looked at her, my gaze cold. "But when it affects the company, it becomes my problem. You are the CEO of InnovateX. Don' t ever be late for a board meeting again."

She stared at me, shocked into silence.

"Do you want to talk about our relationship, Ms. Spears?" I asked, my voice laced with ice. "Here? In the office?"

The color drained from her face. She knew she had no ground to stand on. All the guilt she might have felt vanished, replaced by a flash of anger. It was always easier for her to be angry than to be sorry.

"What' s with the attitude, Brock?" she snapped. "You' re being ridiculous."

She slammed the door on her way out.

In the past, I would have run after her, apologized, smoothed things over. It was our pattern. She would mess up, and I would fix it.

This time, I didn' t move. I just sat there, listening to the silence, and continued to type.

A cold war began. For the next week, she didn' t come home. She communicated only through curt emails, piling on work, testing my limits, expecting me to break, to come crawling back and beg for her forgiveness.

I just did the work. I took it all, every last-minute report, every impossible deadline. And I kept pushing HR to find my replacement. My departure was a freight train, and she couldn't stop it.

One afternoon, the world started to tilt. A sharp pain shot through my head, and the edges of my vision went dark. I remember reaching for my desk, and then nothing.

I woke up to the smell of antiseptic. The ceiling was white, the light too bright.

Kendal was asleep in a chair by the bed, her head resting on her arms. She looked exhausted, her perfect makeup smudged, her hair a mess.

The slight rustle of my sheets woke her. Her eyes, red-rimmed and full of concern, flew open.

"You' re awake," she breathed, rushing to my side. "The doctor said you collapsed from exhaustion. Severe dehydration."

"Are you thirsty?" she asked, already pouring me a glass of water. She felt my forehead, her touch gentle. "You scared me, Brock."

She called the nurse, she peeled an apple, she fluffed my pillows. For the next two days, she was the perfect, doting girlfriend. She never left my side. She held my hand, talking softly about our future, about a vacation we should take once this busy quarter was over.

For a fragile moment, I let myself believe. Maybe this was the wake-up call she needed. Maybe we could go back to the beginning.

Then, on the third day, she went to the bathroom to take a call. The door was slightly ajar. I heard her voice, low and sweet, a tone she never used with me anymore.

"I miss you too, Jamie... No, I' m still at the hospital... Brock' s fine, just overworked... I know, I want to see you too... Soon, I promise."

The illusion shattered. The brief warmth I had felt turned to ice in my veins. It was all a lie. A performance.

I was such a fool. She hadn' t changed. She never would.

She came out of the bathroom, a bright smile on her face. I had already packed my small overnight bag.

"Where are you going?" she asked, her smile faltering.

I knew the excuse before she even said it. "I have to go into the office for a bit. There' s an emergency."

"I' ll have the driver take you home," she said, her voice full of false concern. She kissed my forehead and hurried out.

I checked myself out, the paperwork a blur. As I was leaving, my doctor stopped me.

"Mr. Johnson, wait."

He had a serious expression on his face. "Your girlfriend left?"

"She had to work," I said.

"I need to speak with a family member. Your test results... we found something. An anomaly on your scans."

My heart stopped. "What is it?"

"We need to run more tests," he said, his voice gentle. "It' s just a precaution, but... it looks like a tumor."

The world tilted again, this time not from exhaustion.

I looked at the doctor, the bustling hospital corridor fading into a blur. "Will I die?"