March 17: They both finished dinner. Said we should celebrate with ice cream if Dad comes home early.
There were no accusations.
No bitterness.
That made it worse.
Clara hadn’t written to blame him.
She had written so he wouldn’t miss everything.
But he already had.
Later, when he finally spoke to his assistant, Martin Blake, the truth deepened.
Messages had been filtered.
Requests delayed.
Concerns dismissed as “non-urgent.”
— “You told me not to bother you with domestic matters,” Martin said calmly.
And he was right.
Alexander had said that.
Maybe not those exact words—but close enough.
He ended the call without another word.
Because for the first time, the biggest failure in his life wasn’t a deal.
It was himself.
When the doctor returned, her tone was even more serious.
Clara had a pre-existing heart condition.
Untreated.
Ignored for months.
— “If you had brought her in a few hours later…” she said, trailing off.
Alexander didn’t need her to finish.
When he finally entered Clara’s room, she was awake—fragile, pale, but conscious.
The moment she saw him, she tried to sit up.
— “I’m sorry, Mr. Reed… I didn’t mean to cause trouble.”
The words shattered something inside him.
