Henry Chase, CEO
Henry Chase Architects
“What?” I blurt before I can stop myself.
Henry Chase—theHenry Chase—doesn’t take personal days. He barely takes holidays. In fact, he takes exactlyone day off a year, and today is not that day. Something’s off.
I stare at the email, chewing the inside of my cheek. Should I call? That feels… weird. Especially after Friday night. The last thing I want is for him to think I’m being clingy or reading too much into that almost-kiss.
I set my phone down, trying to focus on my other emails. But I can’t stop glancing at his empty office. The silence feels heavy, unfamiliar.
Sod it. What harm can one text do?
Matilda: Hey, I got your email. Hope everything’s okay. —Matilda.
He replies almost instantly.
Henry: Back in tomorrow. I have your number saved, you don’t need to sign your texts.
I blink at the screen, half amused, half irritated. What a jackass. Guess the friendly version of Henry from Friday night is officially dead and buried.
Still… something nags at me. His message is clipped, colder than usual—even for him. There’s no sarcasm, no snark. Just flat words. Detached.
I push the thought aside and dive into work, but it’s a strangely quiet day. No extra emails flying in, no last-minute requests, no Henry breathing down my neck. By five o’clock, I’ve actually finished everything on my to-do list.
That never happens.
I shut down my computer, sling my bag over my shoulder, and walk out into daylight—daylight, for the first time on a Monday. I can’t help but smile at the novelty of it.
By the time I get home, I’ve had a long, hot shower, and I’m stood in my kitchen waiting for the kettle to boil. Steam curls up around me as I lean against the counter, thinking about how blissfully calm today has been.
Hands down, the best Monday I’ve had in years.
Still, even as I sip my tea, I can’t shake the strange hollow feeling that something isn’t right with Henry.
Eight
Henry
The hospital’s new visitation rules mean I can only see Dad for two hours a day. Ridiculous. So here I am, back at work—probably to Matilda’s dismay, judging by the way her smile drops the second I walk through the door. She can probably sense mydon’t talk to me todayenergy radiating off me.
Dad was diagnosed with sepsis from his chest infection. High-flow oxygen for twelve hours, IV fluids, antibiotics, the works. When I finally got to see him, he looked awful—but at least he could talk.
There have been too many moments in my life where I’ve felt useless. And for someone like me—someone who survives on control—that feeling is unbearable.
The doctors say he’ll be fine after a few more days, but he’ll need carers. They also said what I was dreading: if he doesn’t start physio soon, his health will keep declining. So mymorning’s been spent trawling Google for the best physio in London. I have to start somewhere.
I’ve avoided Matilda as best I can. I can’t handle the embarrassment of my near-fatal HR mistake on Friday night. Nearly kissing your assistant after a “business dinner” in a five-star restaurant doesn’t exactly scream professionalism. She’s been avoiding me too, which, if I’m honest, pisses me off more than I’d like to admit. Would it really have been that terrible to be kissed by me?
“Henry, your eleven o’clock called—they’re running fifteen minutes late.”
Her voice is cautious, her face peeking around the door like she’s approaching a wild animal. My client’s lateness is the first good thing to happen today since coffee.
“Right. Can you get me the file?”
“It’s on your desk.”
She steps inside, eyes down, rummaging through the mountain of folders until she finds the right one. “Here.”
