Chapter 5 - Shadows of the Old Home
By noon the following day, the world I had spent seven years constructing had officially unraveled—and I didn't feel an ounce of regret.
I stood outside the glass office of my business partner, Marcus, listening to the muffled shouts from inside before he stormed out into the corridor.
“You’re out of your mind, Arjun!” Marcus yelled, waving a printout of the bank transfer authorization. “You pulled eighty-five grand out of our primary operating account! We have vendor payments due on Friday! The server migration is scheduled for next Monday! If the investors find out our capital reserve is gone, they will pull their funding and tank the company!”
“Buy me out, Marcus,” I said calmly, looking him dead in the eye without blinking.
Marcus stopped in his tracks, his jaw dropping. “What?”
“Sign over my equity. Take my thirty-five percent share of the company in exchange for paying off my personal guarantee on the bank loan and wiring the remaining cash to the hospital account. You get total control of the company. You become the sole CEO. You get everything we built.”
“Are you throwing your entire career away for an ex-wife who dumped you?” Marcus stared at me as if I had lost my sanity. “She walked out on you, man! She packed her bags and left you in a dark apartment! Everyone saw how wrecked you were! And now you're committing financial suicide for her?”
“She didn't leave because she stopped loving me,” I replied, my voice chillingly steady. “She left because she was dying and wanted to spare me the pain. Now take the deal or don't. But if you don't, I will dissolve the partnership by legal decree tomorrow morning and take my half regardless.”
Marcus stared at me for nearly a minute, realizing that no amount of logic, fear, or ambition could sway me. He ran a hand through his hair, shook his head in disgust, and walked back into his office. “The paperwork will be ready by five. You're an idiot, Arjun. A romantic, suicidal idiot.”
“Maybe,” I muttered, turning my back on the glass tower. “Or maybe I’m finally awake.”
Two hours later, I stood in front of the apartment door Maya had lived in since our separation. Using the spare key she had reluctantly handed me from her hospital drawer, I pushed the heavy oak door open.
The apartment was freezing. The blinds were drawn tight, casting long, somber shadows across the small living area. There were no decorative plants, no scented candles, no signs of life. Just a solitary mug in the sink, a box of crackers on the counter, and stacks of unopened medical bills piled high on the dining table like tombstones.
I walked into her bedroom. On her nightstand, resting beside an assortment of painkillers and anti-nausea pills, was a single framed photograph.
It was a picture from our fifth anniversary in Florence. We were standing on the Ponte Vecchio in the pouring rain, soaked to the bone, laughing hysterically into the camera as I held my jacket over both of our heads.
She hadn't taken down the picture. She had slept beside it every single night while she lay here alone, throwing up from the toxins, shivering in the dark, preparing herself to die in absolute obscurity so I could have a shot at an easy life.
I packed her softest sweaters, her favorite fleece blanket, and the worn leather notebook she used for sketching. As I zipped her duffel bag, my phone buzzed in my pocket.
It was a text from the hospital’s patient liaison:
May you like
Emergency update: Patient Maya Kapoor has experienced sudden internal bleeding. Pre-op stabilization moved to ICU. Please arrive immediately.
My stomach plummeted into an abyss. I dropped the bag, sprinted down the staircase, and broke into the blinding daylight, praying like I had never prayed before.
