Of course, he was right. Arnav almost never made mistakes. The only time he had faltered before was during the turbulent final months of his first marriage. When the arguments, the distance, and the quiet resentments had found their way into his otherwise impenetrable professional armor. Even then, the lapse had been brief; he had emerged sharper and more unyielding than ever, channeling every ounce of his frustration into flawless results at work.
But now… this was different. This wasn’t anger or distraction born from conflict. This was something quieter, subtler, a slow drift of his focus from the world he once dominated effortlessly. He didn’t understand why his performance had slipped, why his attention was fractured. Or perhaps, if he was honest with himself, he did understand.
His
