A year ago, I would have immediately apologized. I would have quietly taken a seat in the lounge, folded my hands, and waited patiently to see if Dominic Vance decided his wife was worth five minutes of his schedule.
But that version of me had vanished. She had dissipated somewhere between stacks of unpaid medical invoices, long nights spent in an empty room, unanswered text messages, and the devastating realization that affection offers no protection when the person holding your heart chooses total silence.
I kept walking, ignoring her protest.
At the far end of the corridor stood the heavy double doors leading to Dominic’s corner boardroom. Behind them, I knew exactly what waited: a phalanx of high-priced corporate attorneys, financial advisors, and fixers paid to make cruel things look entirely professional.
I placed my uninjured hand on the heavy brass handle and pushed the door open.
Every single conversation died instantly.
