Margot was here. She came. She saw me outside, pacing, arguing, lost in the world she hates. She didn’t interrupt.
But she did leave a note.
I pick up the napkin. Eight words are written on it in charcoal pencil:
Keep the glass cage.I want a separation.
Chapter 7
Ross
The elevator doors slide open with a soft, frictionless chime. The 40th floor carries its usual scent, expensive coffee, ozone, and the sharp, metallic tang of anxiety—but the air feels too thin to breathe.
I step out, my shoes sinking into the plush charcoal carpet. I keep my head down, shielding my face; I can’t let anyone see the wreckage in my eyes. I just need to reach my office, seal the door, and finish the text to Margot. She doesn’t understand yet. She can’t. The denial sits heavy in my chest, a physical bruise pressing against my heart with every step.
I round the corner to my office, and the floor drops out from under me.
Tabitha is already there.
She’s standing by my desk, organizing a stack of files. She’s wearing a navy sheath dress, her hair pulled back in a severe, efficient bun. She looks professional. She looks capable. She looks exactly like the reason my wife isn’t speaking to me.
“Welcome back,” she says, not looking up from the documents. “I pulled the Dubai blueprints you asked for. And I got you the dark roast from the place on 5th, not the breakroom sludge. You looked like you needed the caffeine boost.” She’d be right, if I hadn’t already just gotten coffee myself.
Still, she places the steaming cup on my coaster. It’s exactly how I take it: black, two sugars. She knows my order better than she knows her own boyfriend’s.
A wave of nausea rolls through me, hot and sudden.
Yesterday, this would have been efficiency. Yesterday, this would have been the seamless teamwork that made us the firm’s golden duo. Today, it's invasive. It feels intimate in a way that makes my skin crawl.
I hear my own voice from the darkness of the bedroom: Tabitha.
I stare at the coffee cup like it’s filled with poison.
“Ross?” She turns, finally looking at me. Her brow furrows. “You okay? You look… off.”
“I’m fine,” I say, the lie tasting like copper. I walk past her, putting the desk between us. I don’t sit down. “Just a rough night.”
“Well, shake it off,” she says, tapping the file. “Miller moved the strategy meeting up. He’s in the War Room. He wants us in there in five minutes.”
“Five minutes?” I check my watch. “I need to make a call first.”
“You don’t have time,” she says, already moving toward the door. She pauses, looking back at me with a concern that feels like an indictment. “Ross, seriously. This is the Prescott case. If we nail this motion, the partnership vote is a formality. Focus.”
She walks out.
I stand there, my hand hovering over my phone. Focus. That’s the word they use to justify the erasure of everything else. Focuson the client. Focus on the structure. Focus until you forget the woman waiting for you at home.
I grab the phone. I have three minutes. I tap out the message, my thumbs clumsy.
“Margot. Please. I’m at the office, but I’m leaving at six. Don’t leave. I need to hear your voice. I love you.”
I hit send.
Delivered.
I wait. The seconds tick by on the wall clock, each one a hammer blow. The three dots appear. My heart leaps into my throat. She’s typing. She’s there.
“Ross!”
