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He hangs up.

I sit there.

The quarterly review is still open on my screen. The numbers haven’t changed. The Hawkeyes projections are still waiting. Everything looks exactly the way it did three minutes ago.

This is fine. It’s a meeting. People have meetings.

Except my hands are cold.

I notice it the way I always notice it—too late. The temperature drops in my fingers first. Then the base of my palms. Then the fine shake starts, barely visible, the kind nobody would catch unless they were looking.

Nobody’s looking.

I flatten both hands on the desk. Press hard enough to feel the wood grain under my palms.

Four in. Seven hold. Eight out.

Again.

My fingers settle. Mostly.

I buzz the assistant line. Sharon picks up, not Jeremy.

"Clear the rest of my schedule."

"Everything?"

"Everything."

"Yes, sir."

The line clicks off.

I check Jeremy’s thread on my phone out of habit. A few texts from the last couple days—status updates, a question about sponsorship approvals, something about a contract packet that needed my signature. Nothing off. Just the kind of messages that stack up when your assistant is handling things while you’ve been working from home because your wife has made the estate feel more like where you belong than the tower ever did.

My phone buzzes.

Everly.

On my way. Don’t do anything reckless before I get there.

Too late for that. I already got married.

She beats Christian by nine minutes.

Of course she does.

Everly walks in wearing a cream blazer and heels sharp enough to qualify as a threat, phone already in her hand.

She isn’t moving.

Everly is always moving—texting, rearranging, talking with her hands. When Everly goes still, someone’s about to have a very bad day.

"Tell me everything."

I do.

Her face doesn’t move while I talk. Not a flinch. Not a blink.