The report in front of him blurred for the third time.
Zane blinked hard, leaned back in his chair, and tried to focus. Really tried. The numbers on the page should have meant something — projected revenue, timelines, investor notes — all the things he usually devoured and solved in minutes.
Tonight, none of it landed.
His office was dim except for the single warm lamp on his desk. A deliberate choice. Too much light required too much pretending — pretending he could work, pretending he could breathe, pretending he wasn't coming apart quietly and methodically like a man fraying at the seams.
He exhaled hard and set the file down.
It didn't help.
His brain kept replaying the same scene, over and over:
Willow walking away.Not looking back.That fine tremor in her voice when she said, "You don't get to decide what's good for me, Zane."
He'd watched her leave like a man willingly stepping into a fire.
