Chapter 1
1293words
Here, he was God. Floor-to-ceiling windows framed San Francisco's skyline like a silent painting. Inside, the air thinned at his command. He stood before the panoramic screen, voice steady as a scalpel, dissecting financial data and exposing the department director's flawed logic.
"Your growth projection is too optimistic, Ben," Ethan said quietly, his words cutting through the silence. "It's built on unverified assumptions. We need data, not wishful thinking."
Beads of sweat formed on Ben's forehead. He opened his mouth, closed it again, then lowered his head in defeat. The room fell silent, everyone holding their breath, awaiting Ethan's verdict. He savored this moment—everything under control, all variables calculated, everyone bowing to his authority.
Just as he prepared to move to the next item, his watch vibrated—a jarring note disrupting his perfectly orchestrated symphony.
He frowned but ignored it. Mia knew the rules—nothing interrupted his meetings, even if the world was ending.
A second vibration followed immediately, more insistent than the first, carrying an ominous urgency. Irritation sparked through him like electricity. He finally glanced discreetly at his watch.
Sender: St. Luke's Hospital.
Ethan's heart dropped.
St. Luke's Hospital... the name was a rusty key unlocking a memory he'd filed away, unwilling to revisit.
Three months ago, he'd reluctantly left another meeting to take Mia there. She'd been battling persistent fever and fatigue for weeks, her face paper-white. In the crowded ER hallway, she'd leaned weakly against the wall, whispering she was scared. Meanwhile, he'd stared at stock data on his phone, half-heartedly reassuring her while answering emails.
"Honey, it's just stress," he'd said without looking up. "The company's at a critical stage—I'm under pressure too. The body reacts to stress in all sorts of ways. The doctor will give you vitamins, maybe antibiotics. You'll sleep it off and be fine tomorrow."
He remembered Mia saying nothing, just looking up at him with those soft, liquid eyes. Her gaze held disappointment and fragility he couldn't—and didn't want to—understand.
Finally, she'd just nodded and whispered: "Maybe."
The tests that day were inconclusive. The doctor suggested keeping her for observation, but he'd refused—"too busy with work" and "no need to waste resources on something minor." Instead, he'd hired New York's best nutritionist and bought top-of-the-line health monitors.
Now, St. Luke's Hospital was calling again.
At the third vibration, Ethan inhaled deeply, trying to shake off the memory, and swiped open the message.
The message was brief, as efficient as his own life philosophy.
Mia passed away peacefully at 3:14 PM.
For a moment, the world went silent. Those black letters—like lines of corrupted code—flickered on his retina, incomprehensible to his brain.
Then, his system rebooted.
But the operating system didn't boot to grief or shock—it launched a cold, massive crisis management protocol. His brain worked at inhuman speed, a mental flowchart expanding instantly: Mia was dead.
This meant he, as a husband, had numerous tasks to handle.
But his schedule was packed. His Tokyo flight tonight needed cancellation, delaying the Asian expansion by at least a week. Her gallery, friends, their social circle... countless items instantly flagged as "action required" in his mental dashboard.
His meticulously constructed life system—a precision instrument—faced collapse from this unexpected component failure.
He looked up, face already reset to its flawless, cold mask.
"A situation has arisen," he announced, voice unwavering. "Meeting rescheduled for nine tomorrow. I want revised presentations by end of day."
Without another glance, he strode out, leaving bewildered faces in his wake.
Two days later, Ethan returned to his SoHo penthouse.
He pushed open the heavy door into vast, hollow silence. The apartment—his own design, embracing extreme minimalism—stood like a modern art installation: stark white walls, polished concrete floors, massive glass panels.
Before, Mia had been the only living element in this ordered space. Now she was gone, leaving a void both unbearable and utterly unproductive.
He left the lights off, letting twilight carve long shadows across the room. Like a king surveying his domain, he inspected his "assets." His gaze landed on Mia's half-finished painting on an easel—a canvas of incomplete blue patches surrounded by paint-stained tissues.
Chaos. Disorder. Garbage awaiting disposal.
His brain tagged it accordingly. He remembered last month when Mia had pulled him over excitedly to see the sketch, eyes sparkling: "Look, doesn't it look like the sea before a storm?" He'd been on a call with Europe, barely glanced at it and muttered: "Hmm, not bad, dear. Let's talk later." Then he'd retreated to his study, door firmly shut.
His eyes moved to the side table with its precarious stack of art history and philosophy books, a bookmark still in the top volume. Mia's bad habit—leaving books everywhere.
He entered the bedroom where Mia's lavender and bergamot lotion still scented the air, clashing with his collection of expensive, woody colognes.
Ethan stood in the bedroom's center, eyes closing slowly. He wasn't grieving—he was calculating how to manage this chaos.
He couldn't understand why his wife's death left him so disoriented—he hadn't felt this helpless even when his parents died. He needed to restore order immediately. Clearly, he didn't recognize these feelings as grief; he'd always believed he'd never mourn his wife's passing.
The next day, his solution sat across from him.
Her name was Anna—impeccable resume, impeccable face, calm and professional. She resembled a humanoid machine running premium software, emanating the same sterile atmosphere as the apartment.
Ethan slid a tablet toward her. He'd spent the night translating all Mia's "functions" as his wife into a cold, corporate job description.
"Certain responsibilities for this position are currently vacant," he began carefully. "I need you to assume and optimize these functions. The KPIs are outlined there."
Anna took the tablet, intelligent eyes scanning the screen. Her face remained neutral, as though reviewing an ordinary business document.
KPI-1: Social asset management. Maintain and categorize all secondary and tertiary relationship networks. Schedule and execute necessary social engagements.
KPI-2: Household environment maintenance. Ensure optimal cleanliness and standardization of living space, including scent, temperature, humidity, and item placement conforming to Client's aesthetic standards.
KPI-3: Logistics and procurement optimization. Establish efficient household supply chain to ensure streamlined purchasing for all required items.
Each item—once roles Mia had fulfilled with love and patience over the years—now coldly translated into contract clauses.
After reading, Anna looked up, her voice crisp as new banknotes: "Understood, Mr. Hayes. I'll need full administrative access to your calendar and primary accounts. I can deliver a draft Q3 household operations schedule by end of day."
Ethan nodded.
See? That simple.
By Friday, life had returned to normal, as if his wife's absence had no impact whatsoever.
When Ethan entered the apartment, a new, controlled silence greeted him. The air purifier hummed softly, maintaining exactly 45% humidity. The refrigerator contained perfectly arranged protein shakes, electrolyte water, and organic meals, organized by nutritional content and color.
The easel had vanished, professionally packed and stored in a climate-controlled facility.
The book stack was gone, replaced by the sleek minimalist sculpture he'd coveted for months.
The lavender and bergamot scent he'd complained about had disappeared, replaced by his preferred expensive cedar and white musk fragrance.
He sank into the new Italian leather sofa, its cool surface instantly soothing. On his tablet, the previously chaotic calendar now displayed a perfect, color-coded schedule. His life, after a minor system glitch, had returned to its familiar, controlled path.
He lifted the single-origin Geisha coffee Anna had prepared—brewed at his exact specified temperature—and took a slow sip. The pure, flawless flavor dissolved on his tongue.
A satisfied smile finally touched his lips.
His world, temporarily disrupted by a component failure, now operated flawlessly after efficient repairs and decisive upgrades.
Problem solved.
