The boardroom on the 45th floor of a Boston skyscraper was silent except for the soft buzz of the AC and the twitching of anxious papers.
Nathaniel Carter, CEO of Carter Global, stared out at the gray skyline. It was raining again. It had rained almost every day since Emily died.
“Mr. Carter? The investors need your answer on the Q3 forecast,” his CFO said cautiously.
Nathaniel turned. Everyone around the table wore polished suits and worried expressions—people who cared about numbers, not grief. They watched him like he was about to explode. Maybe he was.
“Tell them…” His voice rasped. The headache he’d carried all day pulsed behind his eyes. “Tell them to move it. I’m leaving.”
“But sir, the merger—”
“I said I’m leaving,” he snapped. He grabbed his briefcase and walked out, ignoring his assistant, ignoring the ringing, ignoring everything. He felt like he was suffocating.
In the back of his SUV, usually his sanctuary, he felt trapped. As he drove toward his home in Fairfield, his mind replayed the last eight months.
Emily—his wife, his balance—gone because a drunk driver hit her while she was picking up cough medicine. She left a wound nothing could heal. And she left behind their triplets: Noah, Caleb, and Jamie.
They were five. Before the accident, they were a storm of energy—messy, loud, shining. After it, they shut down. They stopped running. Stopped talking. Stopped being children.
Nathaniel hired the best therapists, filled rooms with toys, tried to be present. But every time he looked at them, he saw Emily, and grief locked him in place. He couldn’t climb the wall between them.
He pulled into his once-lively estate—now only a grand, echoing tomb. He sat in the car a moment, dreading the silence inside. The silence that whispered, She’s gone.
He forced himself in.
He loosened his tie, bracing for the usual scene: the boys mute before the TV, the housekeeper’s polite nod, the heavy quiet.
Then he froze.
A sound.
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