I straighten, hands flat on the table. "We are not attacking her. We are not attacking her family. And we are not pursuing an annulment."
There's pushback. Careful. Professional. Concerned. They talk about optics. Exposure. Long-term impact. How this could follow me.
"I understand the risk," I say evenly. "What you're proposing isn't protection. It's sacrifice."
Someone tries again. "Arthur, this is standard mitigation."
I meet their eyes, through the screen. "If defending myself costs her peace," I say, "then I won't defend myself."
"I love her."
The meeting ends differently than it began. No plan. No rollout. No damage control.
I leave the meeting and step out into the foreign morning, phone already in my hand.
I don't call Lindsay—not yet. This isn't something I can fix with words across an ocean.
Instead, I call Steven.
"Sir," he answers, clipped and professional.
"I need to make arrangements," I tell him. "I'm coming home early."
There's a pause on the line—just brief enough that I almost miss it. "Of course. When should we expect you?"
"Tomorrow."
Another pause. "The meetings—"
"Will be rescheduled or conducted remotely," I interrupt. "This is more important."
"Sir, when you get home, I have something to report about Henry and Lindsay."
"Are they OK?"
"Yes. There was just a slight hiccup."
"Good. We'll discuss the details when I get back."
I can hear Steven exhale softly, and there's something like approval in the sound. "I'll make the necessary arrangements."
***
The jet hums quietly around me, the sound white noise against my thoughts.
I've spent my life building systems to protect me. Control as a fortress. Distance as a moat.
I've surrounded myself with people who understand that business is not personal—even when it should be.
I've built a life of calculated decisions.
And for what?
A house that feels hollow.
I pull out my phone and stare at the screen. No messages. No missed calls. Just the silent confirmation that Lindsay isn't waiting for me to decide we're worth saving.
She's gone.
