I need space. I’m going back to my apartment. I’ll work from home for a few days.
The reply comes fast enough that it makes my heart lurch, like he’d been holding the phone, like he’d been waiting for the blow.
Anthony Voss:
I’m sorry.
Two words he’s never said to me before. Simple. Bare. I stare at it in utter shock.
Because somehow they hurt more than anything Karen said, more than those women’s laughter, more than the way he fucked up. I can hear him in them—stripped of control, stripped of the right thing to do, panicking.
I stare at the screen until my eyes burn. Then I tuck the phone away, pull my coat tighter, and start walking again, awayfrom the boutique, away from the office, away from the life that suddenly feels like it’s closing around me from every side.
Chapter 26
Anthony
The office feels different without her.
Not quieter. There’s still the constant low hum of Voss & Bartley at full speed, the click of heels on stone, the muted cadence of assistants on calls, the soft churn of printers, and the occasional, distant laugh that always sounds slightly nervous in this building. But the air in my suite is hollow. Like someone removed a load-bearing wall and everything is pretending it doesn’t notice.
April’s message sits in my phone like a bruise I can’t stop pressing.I need space. I’m going back to my apartment. I’ll work from home for a few days.Her restraint is what cuts the deepest. No accusations. No dramatics. Just a clean withdrawal, like she’s amputating me before the infection spreads.
I’m sorry,I’d sent it back, because it was the only thing that wasn’t a demand. Notcome back,notwe need to talk,notdon’t do this.I’m sorry, plain and stripped. And then nothing. Hours of nothing.
So I do what I always do when I can’t fix something with words. I build structure around it. I plan. I control.
The charity gala has been on the calendar for months—annual, high profile, the kind of event that convinces donorsthey’re saving the world while they sip champagne and photograph well. Normally it’s a performance I tolerate for the optics and the leverage it buys me with the board. This year, it becomes something else.
A stage.
A statement.
A way to pull April back into orbit without chasing her down the street like a man who’s lost his mind.
I call the event team into my office. They file in with tablets and folders and that slightly wary energy people have when they’re dealing with me at close range. Mara, head of events, sits across from me and begins her summary. Venue secured. Sponsor packages finalized. Press list confirmed. Seating chart drafted. Donation targets clear. I let her speak until she reaches the slide about “featured attendees.”
“And for your arrival,” Mara says, “we’ve built a short red-carpet corridor. Minimal press access, controlled angle shots, the usual. But you requested a more personal component this year.”
“Yes,” I say.
Mara’s smile is corporate. “We weren’t sure what you meant by personal.”
“I’ll be attending with April Swan,” I say calmly. “My communications manager. Add her to the featured attendees and put her name beside mine.”
The room stills. Mara’s eyes flick down, then up, then back down. Two junior staffers exchange a glance; barely there, but I see it.
“That’s… new,” Mara says carefully.
“It’s accurate,” I reply.
A silence stretches. Mara clears her throat. “Mr. Voss, if I may?—”
“You may not,” I say, mildly.
Her posture stiffens, but she continues because she’s good at her job. “There’s risk,” she says. “Press will interpret. Speculate. The board may?—”
“The board can interpret whatever they like,” I cut in. “They’ll be grateful when it stabilizes the narrative.”
