Alexander sat behind his desk, his pen poised over a stack of documents, eyes unfocused. His assistant, Robert, had seen him like this all week—working, signing, reading, but not here.Outside, the city glimmered beneath a veil of fog. Alexander’s reflection in the glass looked sharper, lonelier, than the man himself.“You’ve been staring at the same page for five minutes, Sir,” Robert said finally, stepping closer. His tone was cautious.Alexander blinked, glancing down. Indeed, the same line of numbers stared back at him, untouched. He exhaled, tossing the pen aside. “I’m fine.”Robert folded his arms. “You’re not. What's worrying you so much?”Alexander’s jaw tightened. “She refused to come.”“Refused to come to your birthday?”“She said she had better things to do.” His voice was soft, but every syllable carried weight—anger, regret, something dangerously close to longing.Robert hesitated before saying, “You can’t blame her, sir.”“I know,” Alexander cut him off, voice low, strain
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