Chapter 4: Midnight Quiet
The mansion is silent again.
Past one in the morning, the city is nothing but a dim hum beyond layers of glass. From the upper floors, the streets look almost peaceful. Headlights move between buildings, traffic signals change for nearly empty roads, and distant towers stand beneath the dark sky, their windows glowing like scattered pieces of another world.
In my study, I sit before three screens, each one pouring cold light across my face. Numbers, emails, market reports, financial projections. Tokyo is opening. London is closing. New York is bleeding red across the NASDAQ, and two currencies have shifted in the last hour. My empire breathes in figures I can predict better than my heartbeat.
I open the latest report and move through it line by line. My eyes stop at a discrepancy in the international revenue figures. I open a second window, compare the totals, and trace the entry back to its source. The difference is small, but it appears in two separate reports.
I mark both entries and send a message to the financial division.
Verify the original figures. Do not adjust the report until the source is confirmed.
Another notification arrives before the first has finished disappearing. A revised contract from legal. I scan the clauses, stop at the final section, and return to the beginning. My fingers never stop moving.
Click. Scroll. Approve. Deny. Execute.
Every minute brings something new to deal with, and every hour leaves me with another unfinished task. One decision opens the next. A completed report exposes another problem, and every department has something waiting for my attention. The screens never run out of numbers, and the people behind them never run out of questions.
I pull the center monitor closer. The quarterly earnings report fills most of the screen, its figures arranged in tidy rows beneath the company heading.
Revenue: $847M. Growth: 23% YoY. Projected Q2: $1.1B.
I read the numbers twice, then checked the supporting documents. Revenue is up. Growth is above the previous projection. The next quarter leaves room for further expansion. I open the investment summary, set it beside the earnings report, and place a small mark next to one projected figure. Everything is where it should be.
I check the figures once more before closing the report. There is no reason to leave room for an avoidable question tomorrow. The board will receive the revised documents, and I will know every number they decide to challenge.
I close the report.
Numbers that would make shareholders weep with joy. Numbers that would fill presentations, impress investors, and give the board another reason to congratulate itself.
Numbers that mean nothing at all.
I lean back and press two fingers against the bridge of my nose. My reflection waits in the darkened window: a woman whose features look sharper under artificial light, her hair still pinned neatly after hours at the desk. My eyes move from her to the screens and then to the glass of water beside the laptop. I lift it and take a sip.
The water has gone warm.
I put the glass down and look at the clock in the corner of the monitor.
1:14 AM.
Today is the quarterly board meeting. Another arena where old men in expensive suits will test me, probe for weakness, and wait for the nineteen-year-old to crack. Some will come with questions about performance. Others will challenge decisions already discussed and approved, hoping to find a reason to delay the next stage of expansion.
I know their habits. I know which directors speak first, which wait for someone else to make a mistake, and which smile whenever they think they have found an opening. I have read their previous reports, studied their voting patterns, and memorized the questions they raised last time.
One of them will probably bring up the international expansion plan. Another will question the projected growth, despite having received the same supporting figures twice. There will be someone who prefers to discuss the risks without offering an alternative and someone else who will wait until the end before pretending the entire proposal needs reconsideration.
I open the schedule and check the order of presentations. Financial division first, then international operations, technology, and the investment committee. I move one presentation forward, shorten another, and add a note beside the revised earnings report.
A message appears from my assistant.
The updated boardroom documents are ready. Would you like them delivered to your study?
I type a short reply.
Keep them at the office.
I send it and return to the schedule.
The Ice Goddess.
The thought should sharpen me. It should prepare me for another day of questions, challenges, and carefully hidden intentions. Instead, something small and unfamiliar settles in my chest, a quiet ache, the sense that something warm slipped out of the room while I wasn't watching.
My fingers stop above the keyboard.
I look at the clock again.
When did I last see him today?
Morning. Breakfast. He made my coffee, the Ethiopian, the way I like it, and I took the cup without looking at him. I remember the heat of the porcelain against my palm. I remember checking the time and telling him I had a briefing. I remember driving him to Apex, and five o'clock, and the one question I asked him in the car.
Dinner I remember. The tray outside my door, the lemon, and more pepper than anyone else would use. I ate it standing at this desk. I drank the coffee cold.
Lunch I can't remember at all.
I look at the space beside my keyboard. There is no plate, no cup, and nothing to remind me whether I ate. My schedule says I had a meeting with the financial division, followed by a call with the international team. Between those appointments, there must have been time for lunch. I simply don't remember using it.
My stomach is a distant thing, easily ignored. Food is maintenance, nothing more. A necessary interruption between decisions. I can work through hunger until someone puts a plate in front of me.
Soren is different. He treats meals like rituals. He knows how I take my coffee, how much lemon I want on certain dishes, and which foods I leave untouched when I'm tired. He never announces that he remembers. A cup appears beside my documents. A plate appears outside my door. I come home to find dinner kept warm, though I never told him when I would arrive.
I accept these things without asking what they mean.
Occasionally I find a cup beside my laptop and realize he must have brought it while I was reading. Other times, I return to my room to find a meal waiting outside the door. He doesn't knock repeatedly or demand that I eat. He leaves it there, gives me the space to decide, and carries on with whatever he was doing.
I have never asked him to stop.
My gaze moves to the study door.
Just a moment. I'll check on him. Make sure he's resting.
I look at the unfinished report, then at the clock. The Tokyo projections can be completed before the meeting. The legal response can wait until morning. Nothing on these screens will collapse if I step away for a few minutes.
I close the financial report and leave the other two screens running. I push my chair back and stand, one hand on the desk until the stiffness in my legs eases. My jacket has creased at the waist, so I straighten it. I finish the water, set the glass beside the laptop, and switch off the desk lamp.
The screens keep glowing behind me as I cross the study. Near the door, a family photograph stands on a shelf. It was taken years ago, before the house became so quiet. Both families stand together, and Soren is small, his hand held in mine.
I stop.
I remember the day, though not every detail. Soren was restless, and someone asked him to stand still. He looked at me instead of the camera, so I held his hand until the picture was done.
He had been looking everywhere except at the person taking the photograph. His attention kept moving from one face to another, and his fingers had tightened around mine whenever someone tried to move him into position. I remember looking down at him and finding his eyes fixed on me.
He didn't let go.
I look away and step into the hallway.
The mansion is dark apart from the low wall lights and the moonlight falling through the windows. Silver ribbons stretch across the marble, breaking around the furniture and vanishing beneath the shadows. My heels make almost no sound on the carpet runner.
This house could hold fifty people comfortably. Most nights it holds two.
The staff finished their work hours ago. The security team stays in position, and the housekeeper will be asleep in the staff quarters. The remaining rooms are closed and dark. Their doors stand along the corridors, each one hiding furniture and memories that rarely have a reason to be disturbed.
I pass the sitting room. A book lies on the side table, covered up. Beside it sits a small glass bowl of wrapped sweets. I recognize the book as one Soren carried downstairs earlier in the week. I glance at it and keep walking.
The mansion was built for a family that no longer exists in the same shape. There are rooms nobody enters, furniture that hasn't moved in years, and a dining room that rarely seats more than two. Even the largest rooms seem to have grown quieter over time.
But I'm not a child. I haven't been one for years.
Not since I stood in the boardroom at sixteen and told a table of vultures I wasn't signing over control. Not since I listened to men twice my age discuss my future as though I weren't sitting there. I remember the polished table and the black suits and the documents set in front of me. One of the directors pushed a pen towards me and said signing would make everything easier. Another spoke about protecting the company's future. A third suggested someone older should temporarily take responsibility.
I listened. I looked down at the document, turned one page, and read the section they expected me to overlook. Then I put the papers back on the table and pushed the pen to the man who had offered it.
I didn't sign.
I remember the silence that followed. Their expressions changed, one after another, as they realized I wasn't going to make the decision they had prepared for me. I remember the questions that came afterward, the attempts to make me reconsider, and the way they kept referring to my age as though repeating it would change the documents in front of us.
I didn't raise my voice. I didn't need to.
The memory fades as I reach the end of the hallway.
Soren's door is there.
A thin strip of light spills from beneath it, warm and golden. I slow down. I look at that line of light for several seconds before I move closer.
Why am I doing this?
He is sixteen years old, intelligent enough to manage his schedule and capable of putting himself to bed. He went to his lectures, came home, ate dinner, and went upstairs. There is no reason to believe anything is wrong. I could go back to my study, finish the Tokyo projections, and prepare for the meeting.
My hand moves before I decide to move it. My knuckles touch the wood twice.
No answer.
I count silently to five. Still nothing. I listen for movement. The room is quiet.
Headphones, I think. Or asleep.
I raise my hand to knock again, then lower it. My fingers close around the handle, and I turn it.
The door opens without a sound. Years ago I ordered every hinge in the mansion replaced with German engineering. No creak, no warning, only a smooth swing.
And there he is.
Soren has fallen asleep half-turned over a book, still in his day clothes. His white shirt is wrinkled at the waist, his khakis bunched around one leg tucked beneath him, and his shoes are still on. One arm lies across the open pages. The other hand hangs loose beside the edge of the bed. The book has tilted under his weight.
His breathing is soft and even.
I stay near the doorway. His hair has fallen across his forehead, hiding part of his face, and a few strands rest against his eyebrow. Without his usual alert expression, he looks younger than sixteen.
His phone lies beside a notebook, screen dark, a charging cable plugged in, but the device has slipped close to the edge of the table. I walk inside and push it farther back.
I look around the room.
The desk is not tidy. Notebooks are stacked beside the laptop, a pen lies across an open page, and two loose sheets have slid beneath the keyboard. A glass of water stands near the lamp. A short stack of manga volumes sits at one end, spines facing out. Taped to the wall is a half-finished sketch of a fantasy landscape: a narrow path between tall trees, a waterfall in the distance, a small figure standing at the edge of the path. The shading around the water isn't done.
I remember seeing him work on it several days ago at the dining table, his head bent over the paper while the house moved around him. I asked what he was drawing.
He said, "Somewhere quiet."
I didn't ask anything else.
I look at the sketch again. The path disappears between the trees before reaching the waterfall. The small figure is facing away, its outline barely more than a few pencil strokes. I can't tell whether he has drawn a person or simply placed a mark there to give the landscape a sense of scale.
The room still smells of coffee and paper, small human things this house forgot long ago. On the desk sits a mug with a faded logo.
Introverts Unite! (Separately. In Your Homes.)
He bought that himself. Last year. He stood in front of the shelf holding it in both hands, read the words twice, then looked up at me and tried to explain the joke. I understood it before he finished. He laughed again when I told him it suited him.
I smiled.
When was the last time I laughed at something?
I step closer, careful of the carpet's silence, and stop beside the bed. For once, I'm not the CEO everyone fears. I'm standing over something fragile. Something that still believes the world can be kind if you are kind to it first.
My eyes move to the window. Beyond the curtains, the city lights are distant and blurred.
The world eats kindness and calls it weakness.
I don't want him to learn that. Not yet. Maybe not ever.
The title on the book catches my eye. Philosophy of the Mind, John Searle. The pages are marked with small notes, several passages underlined, and a folded slip of paper used as a bookmark. Of course he's reading it. Of course he's trying to understand consciousness and perception while I calculate profit margins and move currencies around the world.
I lift the corner of the page. The paragraph beneath his hand runs several lines, and I don't try to read it. I read the margin instead, in his small, neat handwriting.
How much of what we experience is actually what exists?
I read it once. Then again.
Something moves at the corner of my mouth, rare, fleeting, and gone almost before it exists.
I'm still trying to understand the world. And I stopped trying and learned to control it instead.
I close the book carefully, holding the cover while the pages settle. Then I slide it from beneath his hand.
Soren's fingers twitch. I stop. His head turns slightly against the pillow, but he doesn't wake. I wait until his hand relaxes before I set the book on the nightstand, straighten the bookmark between the same pages, and move it away from the edge.
His arm is trapped at an uncomfortable angle beneath his chest. I lift the loose sleeve near his wrist, and his hand relaxes against the mattress. I adjust the pillow under his head, slowly, so he won't wake. Another strand of hair falls across his forehead.
I look at it.
Then my fingers move. I brush the hair away from his face, once. My fingertips barely touch his skin before I draw my hand back.
I look at my fingers, then at him.
Soren doesn't stir. The room stays quiet.
I stand there watching his chest rise and fall in the rhythm of dreams I've forgotten how to have.
When did I stop sleeping like this? When did I start waking up tired?
I remember being younger. Mornings when I could wake without reaching for a phone. Afternoons when I could spend hours doing nothing important. I used to sit by the windows and watch rain move across the garden. Those memories belong to a different life.
I kneel and unlace his shoes, slowly, one at a time, and set them side by side beneath the bed. The laces are loose, and I take care not to pull too hard when I free them. Then I pull the blanket over his shoulder and the part of his arm that was exposed, and tuck it near his waist so it won't fall away when he moves.
He shifts slightly as I straighten the blanket. I pause with one hand resting near the edge of the mattress. His breathing changes for a moment, then settles again.
I wait.
Nothing.
The pen on his desk is lying across an open notebook. I put it beside the notebook instead. The loose sheets go under the stack. The glass of water goes farther from the laptop. I check the charging cable and leave it in place.
Small things. Nothing that needs a vote from a board. Nothing that could move a market. I can do them without thinking.
Perhaps that's why I came.
I look at the clock on his desk. The board meeting begins in a few hours. The Tokyo projections still need another review. I need to go back to my study.
My eyes return to the bed. His face is turned slightly towards the nightstand, one hand resting near the blanket. I look at the book I moved, then at the shoes beside the bed. The room is still untidy, the sketch unfinished, and the mug remains on the desk with its ridiculous message facing the door.
I could stay longer.
I don't.
"Sleep well," I whisper.
The words are barely audible. I'm not sure who I'm saying them to anymore: him, or the girl I used to be before the ice.
My gaze stays on his face a moment longer. Then I straighten. My shoulders settle, and my face returns to its stillness. At the threshold I look back once. He hasn't moved.
I turn off the lamp nearest the desk and leave the bedside light on. Then I step out and close the door with the same German precision, silent and smooth.
The hallway swallows my footsteps.
Back in my study, the three screens are waiting, their light spread across the desk and the papers I left behind. I sit, open the financial report, and move the cursor to the line I marked earlier. My fingers return to the keyboard.
Click. Scroll. Approve. Deny. Execute.
I work through the next report and open the Tokyo projections again. A notification arrives from the financial division confirming that the discrepancy was in the original entry. I read the explanation, compare it with the supporting document, and check the figures once more.
The source is wrong. The report has not yet been altered.
I send one instruction.
Correct the source document and submit the revised report before the meeting.
The response arrives a few minutes later, confirming that the team has begun the correction. I close the notification and return to the projections. The figures line up now, but I check the totals again before moving to the next section.
The clock changes.
I open the legal response and read the revised clauses. One sentence is too broad, another leaves room for an interpretation I don't intend to accept. I mark both and send them back with instructions. The reply can wait until morning, but the changes need to be made before the document reaches the board.
My phone lights up beside the keyboard. I glance at it, expecting another update from the office. It is only a reminder about the meeting schedule.
I dismiss it.
Once, while reading a revised projection, I look at the closed study door.
I look at it for a second. Then I keep working.
The next report opens. I read the first page, move to the second, and make a note beside a projected expense. The numbers are familiar. The questions will be familiar too. I know what I need to say and which documents I will need to show.
The meeting is already arranged in my mind.
Still, when the house settles around me and the screens become the only light in the room, I find myself remembering the small golden strip beneath Soren's door. I remember his hand resting on the open book and the way his fingers moved when I lifted it.
I return my attention to the screen.
There is work to finish.
Morning breaks clean and cold.
I rise a little before four-thirty, as always. My body learned the rhythm years ago: wake, shower, dress, conquer. I open my eyes before the alarm sounds, pick up the device on my bedside table, and check the time.
4:27.
I switch off the alarm before it rings.
For a few seconds I stay still. The room is dark, the curtains closed, and the air at the temperature I prefer. A faint line of light shows under the bathroom door. I push the blanket aside and stand, and my feet touch the cold floor. In the bathroom I turn on the lights, tie my hair back, and wash my face. In the mirror, faint shadows sit beneath my eyes, nothing visible from a distance.
I take a quick cold shower. Water strikes my shoulders, and I stand beneath it without changing the temperature. When I step out, I dry myself, change into my workout clothes, and tie my hair back again.
The private gym is quiet when I enter. The equipment stands in its usual places, and a clean towel is folded on the bench. I check the time before beginning my warm-up. The first few movements loosen my shoulders and legs. I adjust the resistance, start the next set, and keep my attention on the repetitions.
Every movement is measured against the last. I finish one exercise, record the result, and move to the next. The clock advances while the gym remains silent apart from the steady sounds of the equipment and my breathing. I increase the resistance for the final set, complete it, and lower the weight into place.
Forty minutes pass.
When I'm done, I wipe my face, return the weights to their racks, and check the floor around the bench before I leave. Nothing is left scattered. I fold the towel and place it in the laundry basket before returning to the bathroom.
I shower again, long enough to wash the sweat away. When I step out, the sky outside the windows has begun to change. I dry my hair and read half a dozen reports while it settles into waves. A message from the office arrives. I read it while fastening my watch, replied with a short instruction, and opened the next notification before I've finished. The attached schedule confirms the revised meeting time.
The world outside my window is still dark, the city a constellation of lights pretending to be stars. From this height, everything looks manageable. Ordered. Small.
I stand before the wardrobe, my hand passing several suits before stopping at a charcoal one. Tom Ford. I lay it across the dressing table. The fabric holds its shape even folded over my arm. I check the jacket, adjust the collar, and select a white silk blouse.
I dress without hurrying. The suit fits my shoulders and waist with architectural precision. I fasten the buttons, check the cuffs, and smooth the fabric over my hips. My hair is back from my face. I choose heels that add three inches to a height people already find imposing.
On the dressing table lies a watch. Patek Philippe. My father's. He gave it to me the day I took the chair, and I put it on every morning. I turn it over once before fastening it around my wrist. The metal is cool against my skin. I check the clasp and lower my hand.
I look at it a moment longer than necessary.
Then I pick up my phone. One notification from the office, two from the financial division, one from my assistant confirming the revised boardroom schedule. I answer each and place the phone beside my bag.
Armour for another day of being untouchable.
I check the mirror once more. The collar is straight, the jacket sits properly, and not a strand of hair has fallen improperly. I collect the phone and the bag, then leave the bedroom.
Downstairs, the mansion is beginning to wake. A housekeeper has already entered the kitchen. The counters are clean, the breakfast ingredients arranged, and the morning light is slowly reaching the eastern windows.
I walk in without announcing myself. The housekeeper turns.
"Good morning, Miss Astar."
I give a small nod.
"Your tea is ready."
The cup sits beside the kettle. I check the temperature and lift the lid of the teapot. The scent of bergamot rises with the steam. I pour it myself and watch the liquid settle into the porcelain. Exactly three minutes steeped. No sugar. A single slice of lemon is cut two millimeters thick. I put the lemon in and wait before the first sip.
The routine steadies me. Some things in this world can still be controlled.
I stand by the counter, one hand around the cup, and check the schedule on my phone. The board meeting is at nine. The documents are in the order I asked for. The first presentation has been shortened. The revised financial report is ready. I put the phone face down.
A sound comes from the staircase.
Footsteps.
I look up.
Soren walks into the kitchen. He isn't dressed yet for the day, his collar not fully straightened, his hair a little untidy. He sits at the table with his plate of toast and eggs, his phone propped beside it, and scrolls through something on the screen. He looks up when he sees me, surprise crossing his face before it settles into something softer.
A smile. Small. Genuine.
"Morning," he says. n I lift my cup from the counter, the porcelain warm against my palm.
"Morning."
Our eyes meet for half a second. Then mine moves to the table. Two pieces of toast, eggs, and a small portion of fruit. A glass of juice sits on the right, with the cutlery beside the plate. He prepared everything himself. I recognize the care in the arrangement.
Soren moves his phone aside to make room.
"Did you sleep well?"
My fingers tighten around the cup. The question is ordinary. I could answer it.
I take a sip of tea instead.
"Enough."
His gaze slides to my eyes, then to the watch on my wrist. He doesn't ask another question. He cuts a small piece of toast.
I stay standing.
His mouth opens slightly, hesitates, and closes. His fingers turn the fork over and set it down. I know that expression. I have seen it before. A question forming, and a decision not to ask it.
Did you sleep? Are you okay? Do you remember I exist?
He doesn't say any of it. He has learned not to.
I lower my cup.
"Your lectures start at the usual time?"
"Yes. Morning classes."
"Don't be late."
"I won't."
He looks at the clock, then at his plate. I watch him for a moment before turning to the counter. The kitchen is warm. The tea is still hot. The morning light has reached the far end of the island and touched the edge of his plate. Somewhere outside, a vehicle moves along the driveway.
I drink again. The tea tastes of bergamot and obligation.
Soren picks up his glass.
"Are you leaving early?"
"Yes."
He nods.
I could tell him about the board meeting. I could say the day may run long. But he knows. He has heard enough of my phone calls to understand what a board meeting does to a schedule.
I set my cup down with measured care and pick up my bag. Italian leather, understated, expensive. I check the clasp, slide my phone inside, and settle the strap on my shoulder.
"I'll be late tonight," I say.
My voice carries no more emotion than a weather report.
Soren looks up.
"Board meeting?"
"Yes."
The word hangs between us like frost on glass.
"Okay."
His hand moves towards his glass, but he doesn't drink.
I watch him for a second. There are things I could say. Eat well. Study hard. Call if you need anything. Did you sleep properly? I could tell him I stood in his room last night, moved the book from beneath his hand, and touched his hair like I still remembered how to be gentle. I could tell him I noticed the drawing on his wall. That I remember the mug. That I read his notes.
The words stay where they are.
I carry my cup to the counter and set it down. The porcelain touches the surface with a quiet sound, and I adjust it slightly before letting go.
Soren has gone back to his breakfast.
"Finish eating before you leave."
"I will."
"Don't skip lunch."
"I won't."
He gives me a small nod. I return it. For a moment neither of us moves. The distance between us is no more than a few steps, and I can't find a way to cross it without saying something I'm not ready to say.
I look at his plate again. He has eaten some toast but left the fruit untouched. His phone is still beside him, its screen turned away. He picks up his fork and takes another bite without looking up.
I could sit down.
The thought comes and goes.
My schedule is waiting. The board members are already preparing their questions, and the revised report needs to be in the room before I arrive. There are people who will interpret a delay as an opportunity, and I have no intention of giving them one.
I turn to the door.
My heels click across the kitchen floor. I pass the hallway and reach the entrance, where a member of the security team is waiting.
"Good morning, Miss Astar."
I nod and keep walking.
The morning air is cool. The driveway has been cleaned, and the vehicles stand in their assigned positions. One of the security staff holds the outer door while another checks the area beyond it. I walk past them. My steps stay steady.
The Bugatti waits in the garage, its dark body reflecting the overhead lights. I hand my bag to the security assistant for a moment and check my phone again. A message from my assistant confirms that board members have begun arriving.
"Keep the original schedule," I say.
"Understood."
"Have the revised financial report ready before I enter."
"Yes, Miss Astar."
I take my bag back and open the driver's door. The leather interior carries the faint scent of the previous evening. I place the bag beside me, adjust the seat, and fasten my seat belt. The engine starts. The sound fills the garage before settling into a controlled hum.
I check the mirrors. The security vehicles slide into position behind me.
I put both hands on the wheel and look through the windscreen. Somewhere inside the mansion, Soren is still eating breakfast. I can picture him returning to his phone, finishing his toast, checking the time before leaving for Apex. Rinsing his glass. Taking his bag from the chair.
Ordinary things. The kind I no longer have time to do without thinking about the next responsibility.
My fingers tighten on the wheel.
Then I release them.
The garage door opens, and I drive forward.
In the kitchen, I listen until the sound of the Bugatti is gone from the driveway.
I hear the garage door close, then the distant movement of the security vehicles. I keep eating, though my attention drifts towards the entrance more than once. My plate is nearly empty. I finish the juice and set the glass beside the plate. Then I look towards the hallway.
Selen's cup is still on the counter.
I stand and walk over, touching the porcelain with my fingertips. It's still warm. I lift it, carry it to the sink, rinse it, and set it beside the others. A drop of tea has dried near the edge of the counter, so I wipe it away and put the cloth back where it belongs.
Then I return to the table and pick up my phone.
A notification. I check the time. There's enough of it to get ready for university.
I gather my notebooks, check the pages I need for the morning lectures, and put them in my bag. Before I leave the kitchen, I look at the empty place where she stood. I don't understand why I do that. I only look.
Then I switch off the kitchen light and go upstairs.
In my room, I check my phone again, slide it into my bag, adjust the strap, and look at the desk. The book I was reading last night isn't open anymore.
I stop.
The cover is closed. The bookmark sits between the pages. My shoes are lined up beneath the bed, though I don't remember taking them off. I look at them for a moment.
Maybe I closed the book myself before I fell asleep. I was tired. I pick it up, check the bookmark, and put it in my bag. Then I turn off the bedside lamp, the one that was still on, the one I definitely didn't leave burning.
I look around the room once more. The pen is beside the notebook, and the loose sheets are stacked neatly. My phone is farther from the edge of the desk than I remember leaving it.
I glance at the bed.
I don't remember any of that.
The housekeeper probably came in. Maybe she saw me asleep and tidied the room. I can't think of another explanation, so I leave it there. I have lectures to attend, and I would rather not be late.
I pick up my bag and leave the room.
The driver is waiting at the front door. I thank him and get in.
The Bugatti moves through the morning traffic.
The security vehicles stay behind me, holding their distance as the road grows busier. I pass a row of shops, then a junction where vehicles are gathering. A cyclist moves along the edge of the road. A delivery van stops outside a building.
My phone vibrates once.
At the next signal, I glance at the screen. My assistant confirms the boardroom is ready. I reply with a single instruction.
I'll be there shortly.
I put the phone down and look ahead.
When the traffic starts moving, I change lanes, check the mirror, and head for the business district. The buildings grow taller, the roads wider, and the vehicles more numerous. My expression doesn't change.
I have already arranged the day. The financial report first. If the directors question the projected growth, I'll show them the supporting figures. If they challenge the expansion plan, I'll ask them to name the specific risk they believe I've overlooked. I won't waste time defending decisions with empty words. The numbers will speak. The documents will speak. And if someone tries to turn the meeting into a discussion about my age, I'll remind them why they are sitting at the table.
My hands stay steady on the wheel.
The first message arrives before I reach the business district. I glance at it when the traffic slows and see that the revised financial report has been delivered. I read the confirmation, then locked the screen. There is no reason to answer unless something has gone wrong.
A second notification appears. The legal division has returned the revised contract. I leave it unopened. The document can wait until after the meeting, provided the changes have been made as instructed.
The road opens ahead.
Somewhere between the garage and the leather interior of the Bugatti, I allow myself one private thought.
I'm sorry.
My eyes stay on the road. The words stay inside me. I don't say them aloud. Not to the driver behind me. Not to the people waiting at the office. Not to the brother I left beside his breakfast.
I tighten my grip on the wheel for a moment, then relax it. A vehicle moves into the lane ahead, and I adjust my speed without looking away.
At a red light I stop behind another car. The city is beginning to wake. Delivery trucks crawl through the streets, shopkeepers raise their shutters, and a pedestrian crosses in front of me carrying a paper bag. I watch the signal. My phone stays silent. I don't reach for it.
My gaze moves once to the passenger seat, where my bag rests. The watch on my wrist catches a small reflection of morning light. My father's watch.
I look at it, then ahead again.
The light changes.
I press the accelerator.
The woman everyone calls the Ice Goddess keeps driving towards another day she has already prepared to survive. The boardroom is waiting, the reports are ready, and every question has an answer prepared.
But the apology remains where she left it.
Somewhere between her thoughts and the words she never says.