I remain propped against the mountain of cushions Nick arranged with quiet, practiced efficiency—each one placed with careful precision, as though he already knew I would need the extra support before I did.
The warmth from the soup still lingers low in my stomach, easing the dull ache that has settled deep within my body. Not enough to erase it, but enough to make it bearable.
For a few moments, I allow myself to exist in that fragile stillness. Pale morning light filters through the heavy curtains, washing the room in a muted glow while silence settles around me, undisturbed.
Then my phone rings.
The sharp, insistent sound slices through the quiet. My hand moves slowly across the rumpled duvet until my fingers find the phone resting on the bedside table, its screen glowing with my secretary's name.
I lift it to my ear.
"Morning, sir."
His voice is crisp, professional, utterly unaware of the wreckage on the other end of the line.
"Morning."
