CHAPTER 4: The Ghost in His Office

He started showing up everywhere. 

It wasn’t obvious. Not at first. 

At the construction site for the new Meridian Gallery I was designing. I was talking to the foreman about steel beams when I glanced up and saw him. Standing by the fence in a hard hat, tie tucked into his shirt. Talking to the site manager like he owned the place. Which, technically, his investment firm did own 30% of it.

He didn’t wave. Didn’t come over. Just watched for ten minutes and left.

At the coffee shop two blocks from my office. Same corner table. Black coffee. Laptop open. Earphones in. He was there Tuesday. And Thursday. And the next Monday.

The barista started asking if I wanted "the usual" and if I wanted it "sent to the man in the corner too."

At the charity gala I attended for a client. The one for children’s art programs. I was working the room, smiling, talking about donor walls and exhibit lighting. 

And there he was. Leaning against a pillar near the bar. Whiskey in hand. Watching me work the room.

Always ten feet away. Never speaking. 

It was like being haunted by a very well-dressed ghost.

My team noticed. Maya asked if I knew the "hot CEO guy" kept staring. I said he was a client and changed the subject.

But inside, it was getting to me.

Because Damian Weyland didn’t do things without a reason. He didn’t waste time. He didn’t "just happen" to be at three of my meetings in two weeks.

So when my phone buzzed at 8:45pm with a text from an unknown number, I already knew.

`Unknown: Garage. Level B2. Your car.`

My car.

I told Maya I was heading out. Took the elevator down alone.

The garage was too quiet. Fluorescent lights buzzed. My heels echoed.

And there he was. Leaning against my car. No suit jacket. Sleeves rolled up. 

Like he’d been waiting.

"Elena."

I jumped. Dropped my keys. They clattered loud in the empty space.

Hearing my name in his voice after six months felt like a physical thing. Like being touched after being cold for too long.

"What do you want, Damian?" I asked, bending to pick up my keys. My hands were shaking and I hated it.

He didn’t move from my car. "I want to understand."

"Understand what?"

"Why did you leave?" 

The question hung there. Simple. And impossible.

I laughed. It came out sharp and bitter and nothing like me. "Because you were never there. That’s why."

He frowned. "I was there. I lived in the same house."

"You were physically present," I said. "That’s not the same thing." I stood up, keys clutched in my hand. "You weren’t there for birthdays. Not for anniversaries. Not when my mom died and I sat in the hospital alone for 14 hours because the surgery ran long. You texted ‘sorry, in meetings’ and then called 3 days later."

"I was building something for us," he said, and he sounded frustrated. Like he genuinely didn’t get it. Like I was speaking another language. "The company. Our future. Security."

"There was no ‘us’," I said quietly. The garage felt too big. "There was you. And there was me. Waiting. Hoping. Making excuses to your friends about why you couldn’t come to dinner. Again."

He took a step closer. "That’s not true."

"Isn’t it?" I met his eyes. They were darker than I remembered. Tired. "When was the last time you asked me about my day, Damian? When was the last time you remembered what I do for a living? I design spaces. I create places where people feel something. And you couldn’t even tell me what color I painted our living room."

He opened his mouth. Closed it. 

"I knew it was blue," he said finally.

"Navy," I corrected. "It was navy. The color you said looked good on me once. Three years ago."

Silence.

"Why are you here?" I asked. "At my sites. At my coffee shop. At the gala."

"Because I miss you," he said. Just like that. No preamble. 

The words hit harder than they should have.

"I miss coming home and seeing your shoes by the door. I miss arguing about what to watch. I miss... you."

"Don’t," I whispered.

"I signed a 4 billion dollar deal last month," he said. "And I celebrated alone in a hotel room with room service. I called my assistant to tell him. He said ‘congrats boss.’ That was it."

"That’s not my problem."

"It is now," he said. "Because you’re the only person I wanted to tell. And I realized I don’t have that anymore."

He looked exhausted. Like he hadn’t slept in weeks.

"I’m not asking you to come back," he said. "Not yet. I’m asking you to let me explain. To let me... try."

"Try what?" 

"Try to be the husband you deserved."

I shook my head. "It’s too late for that."

"Is it?" He took another step. Now he was close enough that I could see the faint scar on his jaw from when we went hiking year two. "Six months ago you walked out and I let you. Because I thought you’d come back. Because I thought the work mattered more. I was wrong."

The garage was so quiet I could hear my own breathing.

"I have to go," I said.

I unlocked the car. Got in. My hands were still shaking.

As I pulled out, I looked in the rearview mirror. 

He was still standing there. Hands in his pockets. Watching me leave.

Just like six months ago.

Except this time, he didn’t look angry. 

He looked lost.

I didn’t sleep that night.