Seven days left.
The countdown had become a silent mantra, a rhythmic drumming beneath the surface of my days. Each tick of the clock was a step away from the life I was systematically dismantling. I had started moving my most personal belongings out of the house in secret, piece by piece. A box of books here, a portfolio of my early, non-Adrian-related work there. I stored them in a small, climate-controlled unit I’d rented under a corporate name. The house was becoming a museum of a life I no longer lived, and soon, he would be the only exhibit left.
Adrian had been a storm of agitated energy ever since Rowan Sinclair’s endorsement was announced. He paced the length of our minimalist living room, a caged animal baffled by the sudden shrinking of his world. He couldn’t comprehend it. In
