I keep pushing.
The physical exhaustion helps, but it’s not enough.
When I finally smell pasta cooking upstairs, I drag myself back to the kitchen. It’s dark outside.
She’s made dinner. For the pasta sauce, she’s used a can of tomatoes and actual spices from the pantry.
It smells incredible, but I’m not really hungry.
Still, I force myself to eat another scoop of protein powder mixed with water becausemacros, then I dig into the pasta.
We barely exchange words.
She asks if I want more.
I say no thanks.
She clears the dishes.
I go straight back to the frigid gym downstairs.
Pound out more sets until I’m completely exhausted. Until my muscles are shaking and my heart is racing and I can’t think about anything except the burn.
Perfect.
When I finally return to the great room, she’s already asleep on the sectional. Curled up in a ball with my hoodie pulled tight around her.
I stand there watching her breathe for a long moment.
Then I grab a blanket and head to the opposite side of the sectional.
We spend the night in awful silence. Both miserable. Both too proud and too scared to bridge the gap.
But even as I lie there staring at the ceiling, my mind won’t shut off.
Because this is what I do.
What I’ve always done.
When faced with an impossible mining problem, I don’t give up.
I strategize.
I find solutions.
I turn obstacles into opportunities.
The board wants me out?
Fuck them. I still own forty percent of the company.
The Brazil lawsuit?
That’s a settlement negotiation waiting to happen.
The media crucifixion?
Public opinion is just another market to manipulate.
