Right. The laptop. The 300+ message subject lines that downloaded yesterday during our brief, frustrating internet connection before the signal died. The outside world that’s been waiting to crash back in and destroy what we’ve built here.
I serve the oatmeal while he boots up his laptop on the kitchen island. He doesn’t bother with the remote starter for the generator. No point in wasting precious fuel just. Instead he’s relying on whatever battery juice is left from that brief charging session yesterday.
I settle onto the stool next to him, our knees touching, curious about these emails of his. I watch his expression grow progressively grimmer as he scrolls through the subject lines of emails he can’t actually open and read.
“Board Meeting - Urgent: CEO Removal Vote Scheduled”
“RE: Brazil Lawsuit - Settlement Discussions”
“CONFIDENTIAL: Whistleblower Testimony Obtained”
“Media Response Strategy - Your Input Needed ASAP”
My stomach knots watching him read. This is his entire life imploding in real-time, and there’s nothing either of us can do about it from this snow-buried chalet.
“The board’s voting January sixth,” he says finally. “On whether to remove me as CEO.”
Seeing the defeat in his shoulders makes my heart ache.
“What are you going to do?” I ask.
He doesn’t say anything for a long moment, just stares at the laptop screen.
Then he turns it off and closes it with a decisive click.
“A week ago I knew exactly who I was,” he says. “CEO. Billionaire. Person who made hard decisions and didn’t apologize for them. Now?” He shakes his head. “Everything’s unclear.”
This is where I should probably say something comforting. Something supportive and girlfriend-y and appropriate.
Instead, what comes out is: “Maybe that’s not bad.”
He blinks at me.
“I mean,” I continue quickly, “maybecertaintywas your problem. You were so sure you were right about everything that you couldn’t see what you were actually doing. To Brazil. To those villages. To...” I trail off, then push forward. “To...yourself.”
The silence stretches between us and--
Oh god, I’ve fucked this up, I’ve said too much, I’ve--
But he’s looking at me like I just handed him an oxygen mask in a room where everyone else is suffocating.
“That’s...” He stops. Starts again. “You might be the only person who’s ever told me that.”
“That you were wrong?” My voice comes out too high. “Pretty sure the Brazilian government has some strong opinions on that front.”
“No.” He reaches for my hand, lacing our fingers together. “That beinguncertainmight actually be better than beingcertain. That I don’t have to be the one who’s always fucking right about everything all the fucking time. That not knowing who I am anymore could be... a good thing.”
Oh no.
Those annoying emotions again.
I’m about to possibly start crying into my oatmeal, so I quickly look away. That’s when movement outside the kitchen’s floor-to-ceiling window catches my eye.
I freeze.
“Gregory,” I hiss.
He follows my gaze and I feel his entire body tense. His fingers tighten protectively around mine, squeezing almost too tightly.
