December in Denver is relentlessly gray. Six weeks since the merger dissolved, I paid 3.7 million dollars for the privilege of being alone, and telling myself I made the right choice.
The company's stabilizing, lean but functional, bleeding clients slower than expected, rebuilding reputation one careful conversation at a time. I work eighteen-hour days because the alternative is going home to silence that's starting to feel less peaceful and more like punishment.
Haven't heard from Claire.
Her friend Jessica picked up her office belongings while I was deliberately at an offsite meeting I absolutely didn't schedule to avoid that exact confrontation. The new apartment complex where she moved is a fortress. Doorman who won't let me up, security that would make the Pentagon jealous, no way to accidentally run into her buying coffee or checking mail.
She's done. Completely, thoroughly done.
Caroline's Instagram shows her traveling before I delete the app in a moment of self-preservation disguised as maturity. New York looking polished at some gala. Los Angeles on a beach that's definitely not public access. Somewhere tropical with umbrella drinks and sunset that probably cost what most people make in a month.
Always with other people. Friends, colleagues, a few photos where she's laughing with men who look like they belong in her world: polished, successful, uncomplicated by family legacies that hunt supernatural creatures for sport.
I delete the app after scrolling one too many times, staring at her smile that used to be for me, wondering if those guys make her laugh the way I did or if she's just performing happiness until it becomes real.
Christmas approaches with the inevitability of seasonal depression. Kieran calls Tuesday night with zero patience for my bullshit.
"The kids made you presents, so you're coming to Seattle or I'm flying to Denver and dragging you back myself." His voice brooks no argument. "Your choice, but one involves significantly less humiliation."
So I book a flight for Friday evening because apparently I'm incapable of declining family obligations even when family obligations feel like emotional waterboarding.
Seattle's doing its winter rain thing when I land. The house is already decorated—Thalia went full Christmas with lights and garlands and a tree that probably required industrial equipment to install. It's aggressively cheerful in ways that make my chest hurt.
Phoenix tackles me before I make it through the door. "UNCLE LYSANDER! We made you things! You're probably going to cry!"
"Confidence-inspiring."
Orion appears with his robotics project—some complex mechanism involving servos and Arduino boards that's definitely above fourth-grade level. "I based the programming on machine learning algorithms. Want to see the code?"
"Always."
Luna doesn't tackle or show projects. Just appears at my elbow, slips her hand into mine, studies my face with those empath eyes that miss absolutely nothing.
"You're still drowning, uncle Lys."
"I'm working through things, sweetheart."
"You're hiding in work so you don't have to feel sad," she says with nine-year-old directness that hurts precisely because it's accurate. "Dad does that too sometimes, and mom says it's a Fenris thing: avoiding feelings until they explode."
I'm getting therapy from a fourth-grader…
That night, after the kids are finally asleep and Kieran's handling some pack business, Thalia corners me in the kitchen with wine and that expression that says escape isn't an option.
"You look terrible."
"Thanks, it’s really boosting my confidence here."
"Lysander," she's using her Luna voice—the one that doesn't accept deflection or corporate speak. "You ended things with Caroline two months ago, and you're clearly miserable. Why haven't you reached out?"
"I made my choice: the company over her. I can't exactly take that back with a hallmark card and some flowers."
She pours wine with deliberate care. "What if you chose wrong, and the smart business decision was the emotionally stupid one?"
"Magnus said—"
"Fuck what Magnus said." The profanity surprises me—Thalia rarely swears outside of genuine emergency. "He makes decisions based on pack hierarchy and business strategy. You're not Magnus, you're allowed to choose differently."
"She blocked me and won't talk to me. Pretty clear signal that ship has sailed, burned, sunk to the bottom of the ocean."
"So fight for her," Thalia sets down her glass with enough force to make it ring. "Go to her and apologize properly, show her you realize you fucked up and you're willing to do whatever it takes to fix it. Maybe she still won't take you back, but at least you'll know you tried instead of just accepting defeat."
"She will say no…"
"Then you accept it and move on for real! But Lysander," she touches my arm with surprising gentleness. "You're not moving on anyway. You're just existing in the wreckage of a choice you're not sure you should have made. That's not living."
Christmas morning is controlled chaos. The kids tear through presents with the efficiency of tiny corporate raiders, Kieran documents everything on his phone with dad energy that would've seemed impossible eight years ago, Thalia manages destruction with practiced ease.
I watch my brother's family and feel the absence of what I gave up more keenly than ever. This could've been mine. A different woman, different circumstances, but the same warmth, the same belonging.
Luna gives me a handmade card. Inside, in careful nine-year-old handwriting: "Sometimes the right choice feels wrong until you're brave enough to fix it. Love, Luna."
I hug her longer than necessary, face pressed into her hair that smells like kid shampoo and wisdom she shouldn't possess yet.
Flying back Sunday night, somewhere over Montana at 30,000 feet, I make a decision. I'm going to find Caroline and see if there's anything left to salvage or if I completely destroyed what we had.
I land at Denver International at 10 PM. and go straight to my office because Montgomery Legal's recent filings are in my system and I need to figure out where Caroline's based now that the Colorado partnership dissolved.
The office is dark except for one light in the far corner. Someone working late despite it being Sunday night, despite normal humans having lives outside corporate servitude.
Probably Sandra. She's been pulling insane hours since the restructuring, trying to prove she's worth keeping. I walk closer and stop dead.
Clair! She’s sitting at her old desk that should be Sandra's now but clearly isn't, wearing jeans and one of my old Columbia hoodies she must have kept when she left, hair in a messy bun that I remember from a thousand late nights. Surrounded by files, laptop glowing, completely absorbed in whatever she's working on.
She looks up and sees me. Her face cycles through surprise, wariness, something else I can't read in the dim lighting.
"What are you doing here?" we say simultaneously.
The question hangs between us in the empty office, six weeks of silence and regret and unfinished business crackling in the air. Her eyes are wide, caught, and my heart is trying to escape through my ribcage.
Neither of us has an answer that makes sense.