A Hundred Chances Is Enough

Chapter 4 The Vacuum Left Behind

(Julian's POV)

My legal chief stumbled over his words on the speakerphone. That was new.

“Sir, the assets were structured as unconditional gifts. We have no legal standing. The paper trail is ironclad. And the divorce petition was filed this morning. The thirty-day clock has started.”

I hit the polished obsidian desk hard enough to jar my wrist. “Gifts? They were apologies! A hundred apologies! Does that count for nothing?”

“Legally, sir, it counts as a hundred affirmations of your intent to give them to her. We cannot win this.”

I ended the call before he could say more.

Evelyn was having an expensive tantrum. Fine. I would fly to Florence and bring her back myself.

She always saw reason eventually. She was my wife, and she had no right to sell *my* properties as if my apologies meant nothing.

My assistant, Arthur, walked in, his face pale. “Sir, the video conference with the European board and Mr. Laurent is in five minutes.”

Laurent’s French conglomerate was our biggest fragrance client. I straightened my tie. Florence could wait five minutes.

The screen came on. A dozen executives filled the grid, with Jean-Pierre Laurent at the center.

“Julian,” Laurent said. “A pleasure. We do have a concern.”

I manufactured a confident smile. “Jean-Pierre. No need for concern. Everything is running smoothly.”

He leaned toward the camera. “My wife’s quarterly shipment arrived without the bespoke bottle Evelyn blends for her. Provence lavender after a storm.”

I had forgotten the custom blend. Evelyn had insisted on including it, and I had dismissed it as a trifle.

“A minor logistics oversight, Jean-Pierre. We are in the middle of launching a new scent, *Serenity*.”

Laurent waved me off.

“Do not give me marketing copy, Julian. We both know who creates your fragrances. My wife wants Evelyn’s blend, and her trust in Evelyn underpins our seven-hundred-million-dollar contract.”

Two board members stopped taking notes.

“That blend is Evelyn,” Laurent said. “Without her work, you are another corporation selling alcohol and synthetic oils. Find a solution, or we will find a new partner.”

Laurent disconnected. No one on my board looked at me.

Pain seized my abdomen and folded me over the desk. My ulcer. Arthur caught my elbow and lowered me into a chair.

“The hospital, sir?”

An hour later, I sat in an emergency room that smelled of antiseptic. A young doctor checked his clipboard.

“Mr. Vance, we need to know what medications you’re currently on for your condition. And any allergies.”

I opened my mouth. I didn’t know. Every morning, I took the pills laid out on a silver tray beside my coffee and ate whatever meal appeared in front of me.

“I’m not sure.” I stared at the clipboard. I ran a company and could not name my own medication.

They treated the pain and sent me home with a page of dietary restrictions. At the silent mansion, I went straight to the mirrored medicine cabinet in the master bathroom.

I opened it and searched for a prescription bottle.

But there were no bottles.

Instead, dozens of clear plastic boxes sat in neat stacks. Evelyn had labeled each one by hand: *Monday AM. Monday PM. Tuesday AM.* The pills inside were sorted.

The boxes for the rest of the week were full. Last week’s were empty.

I stared at the labels in Evelyn’s handwriting. I could run a company but could not name the medication keeping my ulcer under control.

I squeezed an empty pillbox until the lid cracked, then pulled out my phone. It took two tries to tap Arthur’s name.

“Arthur, get the jet ready. Now.”

“Sir? Where are we going?”

“Florence.” I looked at the cracked pillbox. “We’re going to bring my wife home.”