Instead, I felt exhausted.
The bedroom was exactly as Petra had designed it.
Muted colors.
Natural wood.
Soft gray curtains.
The mountain was invisible that morning behind clouds.
On the nightstand stood a photograph from Portugal.
Both of us smiling in Lisbon.
I picked it up.
Looked at us.
Put it down.
Then I called Ford.
He answered on the second ring.
“Gallagher.”
“Ford.”
“Eli?”
“Is the Singapore role filled?”
A pause.
“Why?”
“Is it?”
“Not formally.”
“I want back in.”
Another pause.
“You passed.”
“I know.”
“Circumstances changed?”
“Yes.”
“How much?”
“Enough.”
Ford did not ask for details.
“I’ll make calls.”
“Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me yet.”
“When will you know?”
“Forty-eight hours.”
I ended the call.
I sat there staring at my phone.
That was the moment my marriage ended for me.
Not when divorce papers arrived.
Not when I boarded a plane.
Not when the townhouse sold.
Sunday morning.
Cloudy bedroom.
Phone in my hand.
I did not tell Petra immediately.
I have thought a lot about that decision.
Part of me believes it was unfair.
Another part knows that if I had told her before Ford confirmed the position, we would have spent forty-eight hours negotiating again.
Petra would have promised change.
I would have wanted to believe her.
We would have moved the problem one more month down the road.
I had spent a year hoping words would create clarity.
Her ultimatum had finally done it.
Tuesday afternoon, Ford called.
“You still serious?”
“Yes.”
“They want you.”
I closed my office door.
“When?”
“Six weeks.”
“Comp?”
“Same package.”
“Title?”
“Same.”
“Then yes.”
“You want twenty-four hours?”
“No.”
Ford sighed.
“Eli.”
“What?”
“I’ve seen people take jobs for the wrong reasons.”
“So have I.”
“Don’t use Singapore as an escape hatch.”
I looked through the window at downtown Seattle.
“I’m not.”
“You sure?”
“No.”
That honesty seemed to satisfy him more.
“But I know staying here for the reasons I stayed before isn’t working.”
Ford was quiet.
“Fair enough.”
Visa.
Relocation documents.
Medical forms.
Background checks.
Contract revisions.
Everything accelerated.
Wednesday, I called Theo.
“I’m moving to Singapore.”
Silence.
Then, “When?”
“Six weeks.”
“What happened?”
I told him.
Not everything.
Enough.