Rhode's P.O.V.
"Thank you for your time, Mr. Whitlock." And with that, my 4 pm meeting comes to an end. Fucking finally, I've been over dealing with this shit since the moment it started. I do my best to nod politely as I leave the meeting room, walking briskly towards the bank of elevators at the end of the hall. My flustered assistant Mary trails behind me, struggling to keep up with my brisk pace.
"That's all of our meetings wrapped up. You're booked on a flight back to London at 10 pm," she mumbles to me as she finally catches up. I tap my foot impatiently as I wait for one of the three elevator doors to open.
"Cancel it. I want to spend the weekend here," I reply. I booked this trip a while ago when I was desperate to spend as little time away from Amelia as possible. But now that everything has happened, a weekend with my friends in New York may be just what I need.
"Of course, sir, I'll rebook your flight," she answers quickly before the elevator door closes, separating the two of us. She's an okay assistant, but if I make my move to New York, though, I'm not sure how long she will last. Though I'm also not so sure if Ambrose would be willing to uproot his wife and kids and move with me. I pull my phone out of my pocket as the doors open at the lobby, nothing; it's been two weeks, how is there nothing?
I can't even believe this happened. Why the fuck did this even happen? If she was unhappy, then she hid it very well, and I thought we were in a place where she knew that she could come to me. I guess we weren't. Coming back to the apartment to her note was probably one of the more life-shattering moments of my life. She took all of her things, except for the nice clothes I bought her to wear to events; it was like she hadn't existed there at all, like we never called it our apartment.
I miss her shit being all over the place. She was always kind of a neat freak, always worried that I would get annoyed at her stuff being around. But I loved coming home to her, and all of her stuff. Her toothbrush in the holder next to mine, her skincare bottles lined up next to my aftershave, her university textbooks piled onto the small desk in the corner of the bedroom. Now it just feels empty, and not in the way that I used to enjoy, but a newer and more depressing way.
I climb in the car and arrange a dinner with a couple of my New York mates. They're good enough people, and they may help me take my mind off things, even if it's just for a short while. They all reply quite quickly with a resounding yes; they know I'll probably pick up the cheque because I make the most money by a landslide.