Then he was gone.
I sat there staring at the half-eaten food on my desk. My phone was next to the container. I checked it again even though I'd checked it two minutes ago.
Still nothing from Troy.
I picked up the insurance form I was supposed to have filed three days ago. Started reading through it. Got halfway down the page before I realized I hadn't absorbed a single word.
My hands were shaking. Actually shaking.
I set the form down and pressed my palms flat against the desk. Took a breath. Then another.
This wasn't me. I didn't fall apart over stress. Didn't let fear get under my skin and make me useless. Didn't forget appointments or lose track of paperwork or sit in my office checking my phone like some anxious teenager waiting for a text.
But I couldn't stop.
Couldn't stop thinking about Troy sitting in that house with Dmitri while I was here pretending to work. Couldn't stop running through worst-case scenarios where the next attack came while I was away and I got a call saying he was dead. Couldn't stop feeling like I'd made a mistake leaving him there alone.
He wasn't alone. Dmitri was with him. The security team was in place. Luka was on his way to Chicago with more resources.
But none of that made the fear go away.
The afternoon crawled by. I saw three clients. Worked through the treatment plans with Sarah. Answered the emails that had been piling up. Tried to pretend everything was normal even though my ribs screamed with every movement and my brain kept drifting back to Troy.
I fucked up the Johnson file. Mixed up his treatment dates with another client's and didn't catch it until Sarah pointed itout. She'd looked at me with that same concerned expression and asked if I needed to take the rest of the day off.
I'd said no. Said I was fine. Said I just needed coffee.
The lie tasted bitter.
By five o'clock, I was done. Physically and mentally tapped out.
Mara appeared in my doorway. “You leaving, or do I need to drag you out?”
“I'm leaving.” I shut down the computer and started gathering my things.
She walked in, closed the door behind her, and sat in the chair Rafael had occupied earlier. “We need to talk about your fight.”
My stomach sank. “Mara?—”
“Don't 'Mara' me. Your fight is in two weeks, Declan. And you've been training like shit for the past two weeks.” She crossed her arms. “When's the last time you did a full training session?”
I tried to remember. “Before Troy came back.”
“Before Troy came back.” She repeated it like I'd just confirmed something terrible. “So you've been half-assing your prep for two weeks while juggling whatever the fuck is happening in your personal life.”
“I've been busy.”
“You're going to get hurt, Declan. Not might, but will, because you're exhausted, distracted, and trying to do too much.”
“I can handle it.”
“No, you can't.” She leaned forward. “I've seen you fight. And right now, you're not doing it properly. You're going through the motions while your head is somewhere else.”
“What do you want me to do? Cancel the fight?”
“I want you to be honest about what you can handle.” Her expression softened slightly. “Look, I get it. Your life is complicated right now. You're dealing with more shit than any one person should have to. But pretending you can just push through it without consequences is stupid.”
“I don't have a choice.”
