Derek's phone buzzed again. He didn't look at it. His face had already tightened into calculation, rearranging the damage in real time.
"Claire," he said. "Let's go to my office."
I glanced at Walter. He gave the smallest nod — not permission, support.
I walked past the black card without touching it. Derek noticed. Something like shame crossed his face and vanished just as fast.
His office was three doors down, the one I'd decorated myself two years earlier — gray rug, brass lamp, a framed photo of the Chicago skyline at dawn. He'd kept the furniture. He'd removed every photo of us. The absence was so complete it felt staged.
He closed the door. Below the glass wall, the office buzzed with launch-day energy — engineers huddled over laptops, a countdown clock glowing on a screen down the hall.
*Two hours, thirty-eight minutes until the investors arrive.*
"When were you going to tell me?" Derek asked.
