5. Chapter 5
Julian
Ilook like a liability. I notice the stares as I stride through the office.
They think I don’t see them, these underlings with their wide eyes and quickly averted gazes.
My shirt is wrinkled. There’s coffee on my sleeve.
So what? I’m Julian Plaza. I don’t need a perfect Windsor knot to command respect.
But something feels off-balance today, like walking into a room where all the furniture has been shifted two inches to the left.
The coffee wasn’t my fault. The new barista at my usual place let go of the cup too soon.
I should have gone back and demanded a replacement, but I was already running late after wasting thirty minutes searching for my blue tie.
It’s the exact one Elowen always sets out with my suit.
She wasn’t there to do it this morning. She wasn’t there to do anything.
I push through my office door, and the sight stops me cold.
My space looks like it’s been ransacked.
Not by thieves, but worse: disorganization.
I have multiple projects, so every employee has been working on some sort of report to give me this morning.
Usually, on project days, Elowen beats me to the office to handle them.
She even prepares breakfast the night before so Meredith and Leo can eat in the car so she can better assist me.
But right now, there are no hints that Elowen has been here.
Files sit in uneven stacks. Post-Its pepper my computer screen.
My inbox overflows with papers that should have been sorted, prioritized, and handled before they even reached my desk.
Why isn’t Elowen here yet? She must be struggling to find a sitter for the children.
The silver frame on my desk catches the morning light. Elowen and me at the Martin wedding, her smile reaching her eyes while mine stops at my teeth. She picked that frame herself. “Elegant but not ostentatious,” she’d said. I agree.
It was also her idea to have a small cactus by the window. “Studies show plants improve workplace productivity, and cactuses don’t need much attention,” she’d informed me, arranging it just so. It’s my little workplace buddy.
There’s also the abstract painting on the wall that she selected because “the blue matches your eyes, Julian.” Again, I agree.
Most paintings frustrate me, but this particular one reminds me of Leo’s second-grade painting.
A masterpiece in its own right because, while it may appear abstract, there’s actual organization to it.
I know, because I got out my ruler and measured.
Eight years of Elowen’s quiet influence surrounds me, and I never noticed until now. We had been doing so well until now.
A tentative knock interrupts my decor inventory. Virginia hovers in the doorway, her body language screaming that she’d rather be anywhere else.
“What do you need?” I don’t hide my irritation. Virginia works for me, but she works with my wife more. While Elowen is my executive assistant, there are times—like today—where she focuses on the children, and Virginia takes her place. Except today, I don’t want her to take my wife’s place.
“Mr. Plaza.” She clears her throat. “I received a call from Mrs. Plaza this morning.”
I check my watch. “It’s nearly ten. Why am I only hearing about this now?”
“I tried to catch you when you arrived, but you walked past my desk.” Her voice is professionally neutral, but I catch the implication. If I hadn’t been so distracted by my own dishevelment, I would have noticed her signaling me.
“Fine. What did she want? Did she say what time she’ll be in?”
Virginia shifts her weight. “Mrs. Plaza called to formally resign her position as your executive secretary.”
Oddly, my mouth opens and closes a few times as my mind catches up with her meaning. But then I remember this is Elowen. She’s reasonable. She’ll come back.
“That’s ridiculous. She doesn’t need to resign. She’s taking some time off, that’s all.” I wave my hand dismissively.
“She was quite specific, sir. She asked me to inform you that she’s submitted her formal resignation letter to HR, effective immediately. She’s arranged for her personal items to be collected later this week when you’re scheduled to be at the Shephard meeting.”
That changes everything. The calculation of it shows it isn’t a hasty decision made in anger, like I initially thought. This is premeditated desertion.
“Did she say anything else?”
“Just that she’s left detailed transition notes for me.”
Of course she did. Elowen would never leave a job half-finished, even when she’s burning bridges.
“Thank you, Virginia. That will be all.” I turn away, dismissing her.
When the door closes, I slouch in my chair. Then, I pull out my phone, thumb hovering over her contact. I want to call her and tell her to stop this nonsense. But what would I even say? “You’re being unprofessional.” “The timing is inconvenient.”
The truth is, I’m annoyed. Inconvenienced. Betrayed, yes, but I force all my focus into what is tangible in front of me.
Our marriage has always been a sensible arrangement.
Elowen understands my needs, anticipates them, meets them with absolute grace.
Meanwhile, I provide stability, status, and security.
This is just a tantrum, some misguided attempt to make me appreciate her more, as if I don’t already value her contributions.
My eyes dart to the clock. Nine a.m. Tuesdays are usually Elowen’s day to manage the kids’ after-school schedules. Does this resignation apply to her maternal duties as well? Am I expected to leave the office to play chauffeur?
No. Elowen is many things—including irrational, apparently—but she isn’t negligent.
She has the children. She’s handling it.
She wouldn’t dare disrupt their schedule to spite me.
Likewise, I refuse to let Elowen’s emotional breakdown derail me.
I’m Julian Plaza. I built this company from the ground up.
The day stretches before me, full of meetings I’m no longer sure are with the right people at the right times, files I can’t find, and questions I don’t know the answers to.
She’ll be back. She has to come back. Where else would she go? What else would she do? Elowen isn’t built for life outside the structure I’ve provided. She needs order, predictability, purpose. I just need to stay strong.
I stare at my calendar and it stares back, mocking me with its contradictions.
The McNally meeting is scheduled for two o’clock, but so is the call with Singapore.
Both marked “priority.” Both impossible to reschedule.
Elowen would know which one takes precedence.
Elowen would have caught this conflict before I did.
I dig my fingernails into my palm. This is fixable. Everything is fixable with enough focus.
“Virginia!” My voice carries through the open door.
She appears, notepad in hand, expectant. “Yes, Mr. Plaza?”
“There’s a conflict in my schedule. McNally and Singapore are both scheduled at two.”
She nods, waiting for instructions that I realize I don’t have.
“Well?” I snap. “What do you suggest?”
She dumbly blinks. “I’m not familiar with the priority levels of these meetings, sir. Mrs. Plaza usually handled these conflicts.”
“Fine. Get Gage on the line. He’ll take the Singapore call.”
“But sir, Mr. Hale is in Montreal until Thursday. That’s why the call was scheduled for today.”
Shit.
I knew this, or at least, I should have. It was probably in one of Elowen’s meticulously prepared briefing notes that I skimmed over my morning coffee. How had I forgotten?
Doing Virginia’s job for her, I say, “Then reschedule McNally.”
“They’ve already rescheduled twice, sir. Mrs. Plaza mentioned they were becoming frustrated.”
“I don’t need a history lesson; I just need you to fix it.” I wave her away, turning back to my computer.
The clock on my screen reads 10:43. I’ve accomplished nothing this morning, except discovering how many ways my day can unravel without Elowen quietly stitching it together behind the scenes.
The Morrison contract. I need to review it before tomorrow’s meeting. It should be in my active files, the blue folder Elowen always uses for priority documents.
I open the top drawer of my filing cabinet. Nothing but office supplies. Second drawer: reference materials. Third drawer: completed projects from last quarter.
No blue folder. No Morrison contract.
“Virginia!”
She reappears, more hesitant this time. “Yes, Mr. Plaza?”
“Where’s the Morrison file? The blue folder?”
“I’m not sure, sir. Mrs. Plaza maintained your filing system.”
“Well, find someone who knows where it is.” My voice rises with each word. “This is a multi-million-dollar deal we’re talking about. The contract should be in my office, ready for review.”
“I’ll ask around, sir.”
I watch her retreat, shoulders hunched. It’s not her fault, a small voice in my head suggests. It sounds suspiciously like Elowen. I ignore it.
I turn back to my desk, rifling through stacks of papers, growing more frantic with each document that isn’t the one I need.
My phone buzzes. For a split second, I assume it’s Elowen calling to apologize.
Unfortunately, it’s only an email notification.
Even worse, I see twelve missed calls. Twenty-seven unread emails.
Five meeting reminders. All are evidence that my day is spinning out of control.
The intercom buzzes. “Mr. Plaza, the McNally team is in the conference room.”
I check my watch. Eleven-thirty. “They’re early.”
“No, sir. The meeting was moved to eleven-fifteen. Mrs. Plaza sent an update last week.”
“Virginia,” I say through clenched teeth.
“Yes?”
“Do you remember when I told you about the conflict in my schedule this morning?”
“Y-yes.” I note the moment she realizes where I’m going with this.
“And I specifically said McNally and Singapore were both scheduled at two?”
“I-I am so sorry, sir.”