* * *
Outside her building, engine running. Phone face-up on my thigh, screen dimming and brightening with each new notification.
“At least you look beautiful in the photo.”
What the hell is wrong with me?
Should have said: This violation of your privacy is unforgivable.
Should have said: I'm so sorry this is happening.
Should have said: You matter more than any narrative.
Instead, I managed to make it worse.
I tap the steering wheel—that same rhythm from our drives, but it's wrong now, off beat, like my internal metronome is broken.
My phone buzzes.
Another headline: “Billionaire's Soft Turn: Investors Question Timing.”
The article speculates about my upcoming year-end board review, how a “humanized image” could strengthen my position with conservative board members who've questioned my leadership style. They're not entirely wrong; those reviews exist, those doubts exist. I've never cared about managing my image before.
But now it looks like I do. Like I picked Holly because she was perfect for the optics. The warm, accessible girlfriend to soften the ice-king CEO.
My publicist has already forwarded me two articles, subject line: “This is the best possible narrative for the foundation.”
Her voice message echoes: “It's all working out perfectly for you.”
And I can't blame her for wondering if I let this happen on purpose.
I stare at her dark windows, willing her to look out, to see me here, to understand that none of this was planned.
But she doesn't appear.
And I can't blame her.
Evan
The coffee shop speaker is playing The Nutcracker Suite.
Except it's not. It's some aggressive metal cover where electric guitars scream through Tchaikovsky's melody, and the drums hit like someone's angry at Christmas. The wrongness of it makes my temples throb.
I'm in a shop three blocks from my usual place because the usual place might have Holly.
My laptop is open. A grant proposal I should read. Emails I should answer.
My phone sits face-up next to my coffee—black, no sugar, because I have regressed to drinking punishment—and the screen stays dark. Four days since the photo. Three since her last text. Two since I stopped counting hours.
I've been skipping lunch. Food requires decisions—what to eat, where to go, whether to stay or take it back to the office. Easier to just work through it. I've also been sleeping in two-hour increments, waking up reaching for my phone, hoping for her name on the screen.
Yesterday I ended up at our usual coffee shop without meaning to. Muscle memory. I was inside before I realized where I was—saw the barista who always added extra whipped cream start to smile in recognition—and left before she could ask where Holly was.
The metal Nutcracker reaches the part where Clara watches the Christmas tree grow. . In the original, it's magical. In this version, it sounds like the tree is attacking her.
On my phone, I open our text thread. Scroll up past my unanswered messages to find the last normal conversation we had. Before Jocelyn. Before the photo. Before everything turned into this.
Saturday, December 21st, 11:47 PM:
