There was a pause. A soft clink, like a glass being set down.
Marcus stared through the crack as the two silhouettes drifted into view in the hallway outside the closet. He couldn’t see their faces clearly, only the shape of Ryan’s shoulders, the line of Veronica’s arm. But he didn’t need a close-up.
Their voices were intimate. Familiar. Too comfortable.
Marcus’s throat went dry.
Ryan leaned against the wall like this was his house. “So what now? We keep waiting? He’s still standing.”
Veronica’s tone shifted, impatience sharpening it. “I already doubled the dose in his morning green juice.”
Marcus felt his blood go cold.
Not metaphorically. Not poetically.
Cold like he’d been pushed into winter water fully clothed.
Every dizzy spell.
Every sudden nausea after breakfast.
Every time his hands had trembled around a pen in the boardroom and he’d blamed the long hours.
It wasn’t stress. It wasn’t age. It wasn’t burnout.
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