“I’m sure,” I say.
Eric is quiet for a beat before he says, “Okay. I’ll set up a meeting. We’ll be strategic. We’ll protect you. You tell me when you want the announcement, and I’ll build the runway.”
A shaky breath slips out of me before I can stop it. “Thanks,” I manage.
“And Ollie?” Eric adds. “This isn’t you giving up. This is you choosing your life. Don’t let anyone spin it different.”
I blink hard. “Yeah,” I say. “Okay.”
We wrap up logistics—timelines, the GM, the media strategy, the inevitable farewell tour of tributes and highlight reels—and then the call ends.
The second the line goes dead, my hand drops to my side like it weighs a hundred pounds.
I just told my agent I’m retiring. I just made it real.
My legs feel a little shaky as I turn away from the window and walk deeper into my loft. The place is warm, clean, quiet. It should feel like home by now. It mostly does. But tonight it feels like a waiting room.
I let out a long breath and try to steady my heartbeat. Six days off, and tomorrow morning I fly to San Francisco.
The renovations are done. Phil’s been the point person, sending me videos and progress updates from his team like he’s personally invested in making sure I don’t back out of having a future.
Lindy and Phil are heading out too. Amelia—my niece—has been counting down the days like it’s Disneyland. Lindy sent me a voice note two nights ago of Amelia yelling, “Uncle Ollie has ahouseinSan Franand we’re gonna see it!”
I’d laughed until my chest hurt.
They’re staying in a suite at the same hotel I booked myself. The house isn’t ready to sleep in yet, not comfortably—not with dust and tools and exposed edges. So I paid for something nice, because if I’m going to drag my sister across the country to help me finish my escape plan, the least I can do is make it feel like a vacation.
I’m supposed to be packing. I’m on my way to do exactly that, still half grinning, half terrified, when the bell to my loft buzzes.
I pause, frowning. Nobody comes up without permission. Not here. Not in this building. The staff is too good, too tight, too protective of the residents.
The intercom crackles. “Mr. Marshall?” It’s the doorman, Henry.
“Yeah?” I answer, stepping closer.
“You’re needed downstairs,” he says carefully. “Someone’s here to see you.”
Confusion flickers through me. “Who?”
“I—” Henry hesitates. “It appears to be… service, sir.”
My stomach drops a fraction.
Service.
That word belongs to lawsuits and bad news and things you don’t want delivered to your home.
“I’ll be right down,” I say.
I don’t bother putting shoes on properly. I just slide them on, moving on autopilot as my heart starts thudding a little faster.
The elevator ride down is too quiet. Each floor ticked off feels like a countdown.
When the doors open, the lobby is warm and polished and expensive, the kind of place with art that looks like it cost too much and furniture nobody actually sits on. Henry stands at the desk, expression controlled. Across from him is a man in a plain suit holding a manila envelope.
I know what that is before I even reach them.
My heart twists.
