The next day was a study in exquisite torture. My sleek office, usually a command center of controlled chaos, felt sterile and alien. I moved through meetings and site visits like a ghost, my physical self performing tasks while my mind was trapped in the amber glow of a single pendant lamp, the taste of tonka bean and regret still on my tongue.
The silence from Derek was a physical weight. Rule Three in action: No lapses. No empty bars. It extended, apparently, to casual check-ins. Every buzz of my phone was a fresh lance of hope immediately followed by a sickening drop. It was nothing but clients, colleagues, and Evan—whose messages I deleted with increasing venom.
My mother called just after lunch, her voice bright with concern. “Maya-ah, your father and I saw the photo. It’s beautifu
