That name.
He hadn’t heard it in years. He had trained himself not to think about it. Not to remember.
“Just leave it on my desk,” he replied, trying to keep his tone casual, though his pulse betrayed him.
When Barbara left, Chris picked up the envelope, his hands trembling slightly. He didn’t need to open it to guess who had sent it.
Jasmine Carter. His ex-wife. The woman who once meant more to him than anything else in the world—until he let his hunger for success destroy it all.
The memories came rushing back: their tiny apartment when they first married. Her laughter filling the rooms. Mornings when she’d bring him coffee in bed. The arguments that started as whispers but escalated into storms. The moment she walked out of his life, tears in her eyes, telling him she couldn’t compete with his obsession for power.
“Not now,” he whispered, sliding the letter into his desk drawer. He had a dinner to attend. Important people were waiting.
The restaurant was as luxurious as always—crystal chandeliers overhead, soft music in the background, and waiters who moved like shadows.
Chris sat at the head of the table, pretending to laugh at jokes he’d heard a hundred times before, making polite conversation with people whose names barely registered anymore.
