The message came at 10:04 a.m.
Ruvan Calderic did not send it.
That would have been too direct. It's too clear.
Instead, it came through a neutral channel: an automatic legal inbox that I set up just for this purpose to keep the past and the present separate. The subject line was so boring that it could have been normal.
Questions about professional availability.
I looked at it for a little longer than I needed to before opening it.
The person who sent it was a senior partner at Calderic Group's outside consulting firm. A person I knew. Someone who had never talked to me without Ruvan's okay.
The message itself was careful.
Kind.
Not directly.
Empty on purpose.
They wanted to know more about "legacy systems documentation" and asked if I would be "open to a short consultation to ensure continuity." We will talk about pay. There is a promise of freedom.
Ruvan's name is not mentioned.
There was no talk about why they couldn't work without me.
Just a door that looks safe.
I didn't answer the message and ended it.
The apartment next to me was quiet in a way that didn't seem temporary. The secondhand desk I bought last week was next to the window, and the sunlight warmed the surface where my laptop was. There was a steaming mug of tea next to me.
This was my area.
There are no cameras.
There are no schedules set by someone else's needs.
There are no decisions that look like expectations.
My phone stayed off in the other room.
I went back to the document I had been working on, which was about risk management strategies for a regional logistics company that didn't care who I was. They paid on time. They paid attention when I spoke.
The nausea would come and go in waves that I could control. I had learned which movements to avoid and how long to take breaks between tasks. Control did not mean ignoring what was going on.
It meant getting used to it.
Another message came in at 11:32 a.m.
The sender is the same.
A tone that is a little less neutral.
They stressed how important it was to act quickly. "Potential regulatory exposure" was brought up. The problem was called "time-sensitive."
I leaned back in my chair and let out a slow breath.
It wasn't about papers.
It was about getting in.
They were checking to see if the door was still open.
I opened a new email window and wrote my answer with calm purpose.
Thanks for getting in touch.
I am no longer able to meet with people who want to talk about Calderic Group or its affiliates.
Please send all internal questions to the compliance channels you already have set up.
I read it once.
Again.
No feelings.
There is no reason.
There is no bargaining.
I sent it.
The answer came back faster than I thought it would.
Got it.
Please don't hesitate to get in touch if your situation changes.
I shut the inbox.
Circumstances.
That's how people like them saw leverage: as if time itself were a way to get what they wanted.
Ruvan Calderic, who lived across the city, stared at his screen without saying a word.
He got the answer in a few minutes. He read it once. Then again.
There is no availability.
There is no talk.
There is no way in.
Elowen stood close by, carefully watching his face.
"She said no?" she asked.
"She said no," Ruvan said.
Elowen smiled a little. "She should." "You paid her to go."
He didn't know why the words bothered him, but they did.
He said, "She didn't say no to payment." "She said she didn't want to talk."
Elowen shrugged. "Same thing."
It wasn't.
Ruvan leaned back in his chair, put his fingers together, and stared off into space. The USB drive's mechanisms kept working in the background, slowly fixing what had already started to break.
Ilyra hadn't done anything to hurt anyone.
She had just gone back.
That was the issue.
There was no enemy to face after withdrawal.
Elowen broke the quiet. She said, "My family is pushing for an announcement of an engagement." "They think it would send a message."
He asked, "What's the message?"
"That the problem is solved."
Ruvan didn't answer.
Because it wasn't.
I closed my laptop and stood up, carefully stretching, when I got back to my flat. The light in the afternoon had changed, making the shadows on the floor longer.
I walked to the window and looked out at a city that didn't feel like his anymore.
Ruvan Calderic was in there somewhere, learning the hard way that thinking access was permanent was a mistake.
I had known for a long time that access was a privilege.
Not right.
My phone vibrated once from a different room.
I didn't move.
It could wait for whatever it was.
I went back to my desk and started a new file with a new customer, a new project, and a new deadline. There were no other names on the page with mine at the top.
I didn't feel relieved when I felt solid.
It was certain.
The kind that came from knowing where the lines were and not apologizing for breaking them.
Ruvan looked at the email again, this time from across the city.
The refusal was clear. In a professional way. Last.
There was no room to get through.
There's nothing emotional to pull.
Just a door that is closed.
And for the first time since the hearing, he felt something different.
No regret.
Limit.
He had not given enough thought to quiet.
He thought that disappearing showed weakness.
He was wrong.
Ruvan shut the email and leaned back, his jaw tight.
He had to do more than just ask if he wanted to get back in.
And he had no idea where to start.
I turned off my phone completely when I got home.
Not because they were scared.
By choice.
If he wanted back into my life, he would have to work for it, and he hadn't even started yet.