He picked up on the third try. His voice was low, clipped with impatience. "I'm in a meeting. An important one. What is it?"
"My dad... my dad, he—"
My throat locked. Tears spilled before I could stop them, and the words fell apart in my mouth.
"Naomi, I don't have time to deal with your emotions right now. Call my assistant."
The line went dead.
I stood there listening to the dial tone, then sank to the floor, staring at the documents scattered around me. My whole body was cold.
In the end, it was his assistant who drove me to the hospital.
What I found was my father's body already covered by a white sheet, and my mother sobbing so hard she was on the verge of passing out.
Elijah didn't show up until the following evening.
He strode into the room, glanced at my mother, then turned to me with a slight frown. "Why didn't you tell me it was this serious?"
I lifted my head and looked at him. I hadn't slept all night. My eyes were so dry they had nothing left to give.
"I called you."
My voice was raw.
He faltered. Something flickered across his face—a flash of discomfort—but composure smoothed it over almost instantly. "That meeting was critical. A multibillion-dollar acquisition. I'm sorry for your loss. I'll have someone take care of the arrangements."
He'll have someone take care of it.
Like my father's death was a problem to be managed.
At the funeral, he took a phone call. He stayed less than thirty minutes before he left.
I knew who had called. I saw the name on his screen.
Cara Fox.
After the funeral, I went back to the place Elijah and I shared. Calling it a home was generous. It was just the apartment closest to his office among the many properties under his name.
Spacious. Luxurious. Cold.
I sat alone in the empty living room, and a memory surfaced from years ago—me, tucked into a corner of the school library, secretly writing on the flyleaf of a magazine.
The man on the cover had been Elijah Gilbert, just beginning to make a name for himself.
Elijah Gilbert—may your life be brilliant. May you have mountains to lean on and trees to shelter under. And if it's not too much to ask, may we share a small home together, through every meal and every season.
That magazine was long gone. I had no idea where it ended up. Just like the pitiful hopes of my seventeen-year-old self—ground to dust by reality a long time ago.
From that day on, the ache in my chest didn't hurt quite as much.
I still left the light on for him. Still set out whatever he might need. Still smiled on cue at every event that required Mrs. Gilbert's attendance.
But somewhere inside me, something had gone completely quiet.
He began to sense a difference.
He probably couldn't have pinpointed what it was.
Except one night he came home late and found me on the living room sofa, reading. I didn't get up the way I always had, didn't ask if he wanted a late-night snack.
He took off his coat, studied me for a few seconds, and said, "Naomi, what's going on with you lately?"
I looked up, my gaze level and still. "What do you mean?"
His frown deepened. Something like irritation passed through his expression. "Nothing."
He turned and went upstairs. His footsteps were heavier than usual.
A month later, Cara was in a car accident. Nothing serious, but she needed to stay in the hospital for observation.
Elijah rushed to her side immediately, then called me and told me to bring a change of clothes and toiletries to the hospital.
"I don't know what Miss Fox prefers. Have your assistant pick something up. Or come back and get it yourself."
I stood on the balcony with the phone pressed to my ear, watching the sky darken before the rain.
Silence on the other end. Then his voice dropped, cold and hard. "Naomi, you can't even be bothered to do this one small thing?"
"It's not that I can't be bothered."
My voice was very quiet.
