UNKNOWN
CHAPTER 15
— UNKNOWN —
The 9:00 AM office rush was the usual blur of coffee cups and quick greetings. Christine walked down the hallway, her morning routine automatic.
As she turned into the executive wing, she glanced toward Jeffrey's office, expecting the usual sight of him already at his desk.
It was dark. Blinds drawn, door shut, not a single light on.
She slowed for a second—just a second—then kept moving. People were busy, schedules changed; maybe he was running late or stuck in a breakfast meeting.
She nodded at a colleague, sat at her desk, and opened her laptop. No point in making a scene.
She buried herself in her tasks, though her eyes flicked to the end of the hall every time the elevator chimed.
By 12:00 PM, the office had reached that frantic lunch-hour energy. People were grabbing coats and heading for the elevators, chatting about food and weekend plans.
One of the executive assistants stopped by Christine's desk, juggling a phone and a notepad.
She didn't even bother with a greeting. "Have you seen Jeffrey? He's not picking up."
Christine looked up from her spreadsheet, keeping her expression neutral. "No. Why?"
"He's completely off the grid," the assistant hissed, tapping her screen. "He missed his 11:00 AM briefing, and he's not responding to any pings. It's not like him to just disappear without an update."
Christine shrugged, trying to sound casual. "He's probably just swamped or got held up off-site. He'll turn up."
"I hope so," the assistant muttered, eyes darting toward the dark office at the end of the hall. "Because right now, nobody knows where he is."
At 5:00 PM, the office was clearing out. Chairs were being pushed in, bags packed. The executive wing, however, felt frozen in time.
Jeffrey's office was still a dark, empty box.
The assistant swung by one last time on her way to the elevator. She looked exhausted, her professional veneer finally slipping. "His phone goes straight to voicemail. I even tried his home line at the condo. Nothing."
Christine stayed seated for a moment, zipping her bag shut. Her fingers felt uncharacteristically stiff. "Regional directors?"
"Furious," the assistant said, rubbing her temples. "They expected him on the call at four. If he's not in by tomorrow morning, I have to escalate this to HR. This isn't just a missed meeting—this is an emergency."
Christine stood up, her movements slower than usual. She felt a cold, sudden tightness in her chest that had nothing to do with the office AC.
She tried to steady her breath, but her pulse was jumping. "I'm sure there's an explanation," she said, though the words sounded thin, even to her.
"I really hope so," the assistant said, turning away, her own frustration masking a flicker of genuine fear.
Christine didn't offer a polite smile this time; she couldn't. She grabbed her bag and walked toward the elevators, her eyes darting one last time to that dark, silent office. She unlocked her phone, her thumb hovering over Jeffrey's name.
For the first time all day, she wasn't wondering where he was.
She was wondering if he was all right.
The hallway's silence didn't just trail her anymore—it felt like a question, and the lack of an answer was beginning to gnaw at her.
She stared at her phone, her thumb hovering over his name. She tapped it. It didn't even ring twice before cutting straight to his automated voicemail. She hung up, waited ten agonizing seconds, and redialed. Same thing.
Frustration morphed into a cold, hard knot in her stomach. Giving up on him, she looked up the front desk number for the Brixton Residences.
It rang out in her ear, three long beats that felt like hours, before a distracted voice picked up.
"Brixton Residences, good evening."
"Hi, hello," Christine said, trying to keep the tremor out of her voice. "Could I check if Mr. Jeffrey Reyes is in his unit right now?"
"May I know the unit number, Ma'am?"
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"I don't actually know it," Christine admitted, her voice tightening. "Look, I just really need to reach him. He didn't show up for work today and his phone is off. Could you at least check if his car is down there? In his designated slot?"
A heavy pause stretched over the line. She heard the faint tapping of a keyboard. "Yes, Ma'am. His vehicle is still parked in the basement."
"Okay. Thank you."
Christine dropped her hand, the call ending with a soft beep. She stood frozen on the sidewalk, the roar of the evening traffic blurring into a dull, white noise. The humid night air was thick, but her fingers felt like ice. Her chest heaved in shallow, jagged bursts.
What am I doing? The thought hit her like a physical blow. If she went up there, the line was gone. The safe, comfortable boundary of being just a colleague would shatter.
Going to his home meant admitting that his absence mattered. It meant admitting how much it hurt.
She stared down at the dark screen of her phone. It wasn't about professional etiquette anymore; it was pure, unadulterated dread.
She was terrified of what she might find behind that door, and just as terrified that he might look at her and tell her she had no right to be there.
But an even sharper fear cut through the hesitation—the thought of going back to her own apartment, sitting in the dark, and spending the entire weekend wondering if he was okay, knowing she could have just gone to check.
Her heart hammered against her ribs, a frantic, sickening rhythm that made her dizzy. She felt paralyzed, caught between the rational urge to turn around and the terrifying, deep-rooted instinct that something was fundamentally broken.
She couldn't breathe. The hollow, suffocating silence of his empty office from earlier that afternoon replayed in her mind. Doing nothing wasn't just a passive choice; it felt physically painful.
Shoving the phone into her bag, she didn't give herself another second to second-guess. She turned toward the parking garage, her pace breaking into a hurried stride, desperate to trade the agonizing guesswork for whatever truth was waiting for her.
The drive to Brixton was a blur of hostile red taillights and a pounding pulse. Every single stoplight felt malicious, a deliberate delay keeping her from the answers she needed.
When she finally killed the engine in the basement parking, she didn't even bother checking her hair or her reflection; she just grabbed her bag and practically ran for the lobby elevators.
The lobby was freezing, smelling of expensive floral air freshener and polished marble. She walked straight to the high counter, her heels clicking aggressively against the stone floor.
The concierge looked up, his polite smile instantly faltering when he caught the raw urgency vibrating off her.
Christine leaned over the desk, her voice low, tight, and leaving no room for argument. "I called earlier. I'm here for Jeffrey Reyes."
The young man shifted uncomfortably, his eyes darting down. "I remember, Ma'am. But like I said, we really can't give out unit numbers or let anyone up without a confirmation from the resident. I can try dialing his intercom, but if he doesn't pick up—"
Christine gripped the edge of the marble counter, her knuckles turning white. She didn't have the bandwidth for building policy. She leaned closer, locking her eyes onto his, her voice dropping into a dangerous, steady quiet.
"Listen to me very carefully," she said, the adrenaline spiking hot in her veins. "He missed every single meeting today. He is completely off the grid. His staff is in a panic, the board is furious, and I am the only person who actually came to make sure he's alive. If something has happened to him up there, you holding me back right now is only going to make it worse."
The concierge looked between her and his security monitors, his hesitation palpable.
"Please," Christine added, the hard edge vanishing from her voice, replaced by a raw, desperate vulnerability. "I just need to know he's okay. That's all."
The man let out a long, defeated sigh. He turned to his screen, the rapid clack-clack of his keyboard sounding like a countdown in her ears.
He slid a black visitor's pass across the smooth marble, giving her a silent, pleading look.
"Unit 2402," he murmured. "Please, Ma'am... keep it low-key. If he's just sleeping off a rough day, I can't have the neighbors complaining."
Christine snatched the card, a sharp breath catching in her throat. "Thank you."
She bolted for the elevators before he could change his mind. The digits 2402 felt branded into her mind. As the metal doors slid shut and the car began its smooth, silent ascent, the reality of the situation finally crashed down on her.
In less than a minute, she was going to be standing outside his private life, and she was terrified of what was waiting on the other side of that door.
The hallway on the twenty-fourth floor was silent, but it wasn't the clean, sterile silence of an office.
It felt heavy. When Christine stepped into the apartment, the air hit her—stale air, thick with the smell of spilled whiskey, sweat, and something like burnt toast.
It wasn't the home of a high-powered CEO. It was the bunker of a man who had completely given up on keeping appearances.
She found him in the living room. He wasn't sprawled heroically; he was curled up in the corner of the sofa, looking small and decidedly un-CEO-like.
His shirt was half-untucked, wrinkled from being slept in, and his hair was a disaster. He looked less like a captain of industry and more like a guy who had been chewed up by the week and spat out.
"Jeffrey?"
He groaned, his eyes cracking open. They were bloodshot and puffy, lacking that sharp, focused intensity she was used to.
He didn't look glad to see her. He looked annoyed, then mortified.
"What are you doing here?" he rasped, his voice sounding like gravel. He tried to sit up, but he fumbled, nearly knocking a half-empty glass off the coffee table.
He shoved it away with a clumsy hand, his face flushing a dark, blotchy red. "Get out, Christine. Seriously."
"I'm not leaving, Jeffrey," she said, her voice steady even though her heart was pounding.
"I said go!" He snapped, the flash of anger making him look erratic.
He stood up, but his equilibrium was off; he swayed, grabbing the back of the sofa to steady himself. He wouldn't meet her eyes.
He was pacing, his movements jerky and uncoordinated—a far cry from his usual, calculated stride.
"You shouldn't be seeing this. This is... this is pathetic. Just go home, okay? Tell them I'm sick. Tell them I'm dead. I don't care."
He was shaking, not from drama, but from a genuine, messy lack of control. He looked desperate—he looked like he wanted to crawl into the floorboards just to disappear.
"I'm not leaving you in this state," Christine said, stepping closer, careful to keep her hands visible. "You look like hell, Jeffrey."
That broke the defense. He let out a harsh, bitter laugh, but it dissolved into a coughing fit.
He leaned over, hands on his knees, breathing hard. "Yeah," he wheezed. "That's accurate."
He stayed hunched over like that for a long time, the silence returning, but this time it wasn't judgmental. It was just quiet.
When he finally straightened up, the anger was gone, leaving behind something much more fragile.
He looked exhausted—not just 'need a nap' tired, but soul-deep, done-with-it tired.
"I wanted to be the one who handled it," he muttered, staring at the floor. "The projects, the stress... I thought if I just worked enough, I could fix the bleeding. But I just made it worse, didn't I? I've been failing at everything for weeks, and I just... I couldn't face you because every time I looked at you... I was reminded of everything I wasn't holding together."
It was an ugly, honest admission—jealousy, pride, and shame all wrapped into one. He didn't look like a hero; he looked like a man who had reached his limit and found out he wasn't as strong as he thought.
Christine didn't offer a platitude. She didn't tell him he was great. She just moved to the kitchenette, grabbed a glass, filled it with water, and held it out to him.
"You're a mess," she said, her voice soft but unyielding.
He took the glass, his fingers trembling, and drank half of it in one go. He wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, looking at her with a mix of defiance and crushing relief. "I know."
"We're both a mess, Jeffrey. You just got here first." She sat on the edge of the sofa, creating a space for him.
"The office is going to be a disaster on Monday. But it's still just work. We can delegate. We can reschedule. We can deal with it. We have options."
He stared at the water glass. "A reset?"
"A reset," she agreed. "We drop the act. You stop trying to be the guy who carries the world, and I stop pretending I don't see you drowning. We take the weekend. We sleep. We eat something that isn't liquid. And then we figure out what we actually want to build, instead of just surviving the wreckage."
He looked at her, his eyes searching hers for a lie, for judgment, for anything other than what he found.
He didn't find any. He let out a long, ragged exhale—a sound of pure, unadulterated release. He slumped back down onto the couch, not near her, but just with her.
He wasn't fixed. He was still a mess, his shirt was still a disaster, and he probably had a massive headache coming. But he let his head drop back against the cushions and closed his eyes.
"Okay," he whispered. "Okay."
And for the first time in days, the room felt like it had enough oxygen to breathe.