Chapter 36
Chapter thirty-six
Arthur
Monday's alarm goes off at precisely six-thirty a.m.
I silence it, already reaching for my phone to check messages that accumulated overnight. The screen shows nothing urgent. No crises. No updates.
No Lindsay.
This is how I prefer it. Clean. Ordered. Under control.
Henry is awake before I am. I know because I can hear him moving around the kitchen—cupboards opening, cereal pouring, the television murmuring something loud and animated.
The house sounds wrong without her.
As soon as I get in the kitchen, Henry's talking—rapid-fire, breathless—about CAMICon.
About panels and costumes and something called limited-edition merch that apparently matters a great deal.
He talks like nothing has changed.
It grates. Not because of the topic, but because of the ease. The enthusiasm.
The absence of the careful restraint he usually wears around me. That kind of energy Lindsay pulled out of him.
I pour coffee and tell myself irritation is reasonable before seven a.m. It doesn’t help.
"And then there was this whole exhibit about character design, and Lindsay showed me how they—"
My hand tightens around the mug. "Henry."
He stops mid-sentence, eyes widening slightly.
"Sorry," he says automatically. "I know it's early."
But he doesn't stop talking. He redirects. Tells me conventions are about community, not just fandom.
I listen, jaw tight, wondering why every word feels like a small accusation.
"You're not even listening," Henry says finally, looking at me over his bowl.
"I am," I reply automatically.
He studies me for a moment, then goes back to his cereal.
This tension is temporary. Things will normalize.
But the words don't resonate anymore.
"Are you mad at Lindsay?" he asks.
The question is blunt. Unfiltered. Dangerous.
"I'm not discussing adult matters," I say, too quickly.
Henry frowns. Then, very quietly, he says, "If you love her, stop acting like you don't."
The words hit harder than anything said in anger. They're not dramatic. They're not weaponized. They're simply true in a way that bypasses every defense I've built.
I open my mouth, but he's already putting his bowl in the sink.
He heads to his room. The house goes silent.
***
The office feels unusually loud today.
Every conversation, every keyboard click, every phone ringing in the distance registers like an intrusion.
I find myself snapping at an assistant over a scheduling conflict.
Dismissing ideas in a meeting without properly evaluating them.
Checking my phone between presentations as if something urgent might have appeared.
Nothing has.
Steven calls around noon. His tone is careful, deliberate.
"Sir," he says, "Ms. Smith came by while you were at the office. She collected some personal items."
My chest constricts. "When?"
"About an hour ago. She was brief."
I want to ask if she said anything. If she seemed upset. If she asked about me. The questions line up behind my teeth, crowding for exit.
"Thank you for the update," I say instead, and end the call.
The rest of the afternoon blurs.
I review my calendar again, looking for the correction point.
More structure should fix this. More distance.
It doesn’t.
I move through the rest of the day like a ghost, attending meetings, signing documents, making decisions.
The same systems that used to settle me now feel inert—perfectly intact and utterly ineffective.
***
Mid-morning the next day, I receive an urgent call. Europe. Immediate. Non-negotiable.
I agree without hesitation.
I send a message to Steven about getting things ready. He'll prepare everything for me and Henry while I'm gone.
Leaving feels like relief. Distance always does. Geography has solved more problems in my life than conversation.
The driver is already waiting when I step outside. My bag is packed. My schedule cleared.
As the car pulls away, the house recedes in the window. I expect the familiar sensation—the lightness, the narrowing of focus, the comfort of movement.
Instead, my chest feels heavier with every mile.
I close my eyes and imagine leaving everything behind the way I leave cities. Contracts. Boardrooms. Problems.
As my driver takes me to my private jet, I wish I could leave my feelings behind as easily as I can leave the country.
The jet waits on the tarmac, sleek and ready. The kind of machine that exists solely to make escape effortless.
As I climb the steps, I think about Lindsay's laugh. The way she filled silence instead of fearing it. The way she challenged me without trying to control me. The way she walked out without begging me to understand.
I think about Henry's voice. Steady. Certain.
If you love her, stop acting like you don't.
I sit down, buckle in, and stare out the window as the engines start.
I've always believed love is a liability. Something that clouds judgment. Something others can use against you.
But as the plane lifts into the sky, carrying me farther from the damage I caused—
I realize the truth is worse.
Love doesn't make you weak. Running from it does.