Chapter 1: The Deadline Trap

The clock on my monitor blinked 6:45 p.m. Friday. Another late one. The open-plan floor was a graveyard of empty desks, only the low hum of the air-conditioning and the distant tick of the elevator fighting the silence. My shoulders burned from hunching. My eyes stung from staring at the same damn slides all afternoon. Stale coffee clung to the air like a bad habit, the kind that never quite washes out of the carpet.

I glanced at my phone again. Dave’s text from two hours ago still glowed on the screen: Flight delayed. Won’t be home till Sunday. Three nights minimum, every week (But he caught an earlier flight that weekend—something I only learned after the fact.) Same old story. I twisted my wedding ring around my finger, the gold catching the harsh fluorescent glare overhead. Eleven weeks. I’d stopped counting the exact days, but the number sat in my chest like a stone. Dave and I hadn’t touched each other in eleven weeks. Not once. Not even a sleepy Sunday-morning attempt that fizzled into nothing. Our bed had become just a place to collapse.

The charcoal pencil skirt clung to my thighs, the fabric warm from sitting too long. I’d undone the top two buttons of my cream blouse hours ago—the office heat was merciless this time of year. Sheer black thigh-high stockings whispered against my skin every time I shifted, the lace tops hugging just below the hem of the skirt. My three-inch black pumps dangled from one toe under the desk; the arches ached, but I couldn’t kick them off yet. Not while these final slides for the $2.4 million pitch still stared back at me. Rob needed them perfect by Monday morning. No excuses.

I saved the deck again, heart already dreading the weekend alone. The cursor blinked. My mind drifted to the empty house waiting for me—cold sheets, leftover takeout, the silence that pressed in harder every time Dave’s suitcase rolled out the door. I rubbed my temples. Just finish this. Then home. Then bed. Alone.