Chapter1
The sunrise over the Gulf was stunning.Cassidy Wren knew this because the wellness blog she’d bookmarked had specifically recommended watching sunrises as a therapeutic practice for high-functioning professionals in recovery from burnout.
She sat on the upper balcony of Heron Cottage with her tablet propped on her knees.The spreadsheet glowed against the soft dawn light.She’d color-coded her sabbatical schedule by activity type.Blue for physical wellness.Green for mental health.Yellow for creative exploration.
Six o’clock.Sunrise Reflection.Check.
Her smartwatch buzzed.Heart rate: 79 bpm.Still elevated for someone supposedly relaxing.
She tried the breathing exercise from the app.Four counts in.Hold for seven.Eight counts out.Her chest tightened instead of releasing.She was doing relaxation wrong.There had to be a more efficient method.
The waves rolled against the shore beyond the lighthouse.Rhythmic.Predictable.The kind of sound people paid good money to download for sleep aids.
She just wanted to throw her tablet at them.
The silence was unbearable.In Chicago, her mornings started with the rumble from the L, the coffee cart vendor’s greeting, and the elevator’s digital chime.Her calendar pinged every fifteen minutes.Her phone buzzed with Slack notifications before she’d finished her first latte.The noise meant motion.Motion meant progress, and that she existed.
Here, the only sound was water and the occasional cry of a seabird that sounded vaguely accusatory.
She glanced at the schedule again.Six thirty.Hydration and Journaling.She had seventeen minutes to achieve inner peace before moving to the next block.
Her phone sat on the wicker table beside her, face down.She’d promised Dr.Smith she wouldn’t check work email.She’d promised the HR director the same thing when he’d handed her the sabbatical paperwork with that practiced expression of concern that barely masked his relief at getting her out of the office.
“Two months,” he’d said.“Fully paid.Come back refreshed.”
What he’d meant was come back fixed or don’t come back at all.
She picked up the phone.
Just one look.Just to make sure nothing was on fire.She’d built the Sampson campaign from scratch.She’d landed the pharma account after nine months of pitching.Her team needed her.They had to need her.
She opened her email.
Forty-three unread messages.She scrolled past the newsletters and the automated reports.Nothing urgent.Nothing with her name in the subject line.Nothing that even suggested anyone had noticed her absence beyond the auto-reply she’d been forced to set up.
Then she saw it.
From: Steve Hodges Subject: Weekly Recap.All Good!
Her jaw clenched.She opened it.
Hey team!Quick update on accounts.The Sampson campaign launched successfully (minor tweaks to Cassidy’s original plan, but we’re tracking above projections).Pharma contract signed this morning.They loved the pitch.Thanks for the foundation work, Cass, wherever you are!Beach treating you well?Don’t worry about a thing.Honestly, we’ve hit our stride.Barely even notice you’re gone.
She read it again.Barely even notice you’re gone.
Her heart rate spiked.The watch buzzed a warning.She dismissed it.
Steve had taken her account.Steve, who’d spent three years riding her coattails and taking credit for her late nights.Steve, who smiled in meetings and undermined her in emails, was apparently thriving in her absence.
She wasn’t relieved.She was erased.
The screen blurred.She blinked hard.She was not going to cry over Steve Hodges’s passive-aggressive emoji.
She closed the email, deleted it, then pulled it back from trash and marked it unread so she could delete it again later with more intention.
The sunrise had finished happening without her.The sky was fully light now.She’d missed her window for therapeutic reflection.
As she stood, the wicker chair scraped against the wooden deck.She couldn’t sit here.If she sat here, she’d open her laptop.If she opened her laptop, she’d start working.If she started working, she’d prove Dr.Smith right about her inability to disengage.
