“Will do.”
I watched him drive away. At sixty-one, he looked like the same man I’d built my life with — just grayer, slower.
I thought he was still mine.
I landed in Chicago expecting the usual: bland hotel food, overly firm mattresses, and conference chatter.
It was late when I checked in. I was exhausted, dragging my suitcase across the marble lobby.
And then I saw him.
Kellan stood by the elevators with a woman.
She looked decades younger, holding a manila folder and leaning in as he spoke quietly to her.
