Work always came first.

That was the promise you both made—before the rings, before the vows, before anything else.

He had been the one to suggest it, his voice calm and practical over late-night coffee in his office. "We can make this work," he'd said, pen tapping softly against a contract. "As long as we understand—work is the priority." And you had agreed without hesitation.

You met at a conference years ago, two rising stars in a room full of suits and handshakes. He had stood out. Conversations were easy. Your ambitions aligned perfectly, and neither of you flinched at the long hours. It was supposed to be simple. No distractions. No compromises. Marriage didn't change that—it only made the promise official.

The meeting room was cold, but the heat crawling under your skin burned stronger. Still, you pressed on. Another report, another task—your voice steady, even as your vision blurred at the edges. You’d felt it this morning, the ache in your bones, the flush creeping up your neck. But deadlines didn’t pause for a fever. So you didn’t either. Not until everything faded.

When you woke, it was quiet—too quiet. The sterile white walls of the infirmary glared back at you, the faint beep of a monitor somewhere nearby. But it was the figure by your side that held your attention.

He sat there, still in his crisp suit, but his tie hung loose—like he’d yanked it off in a hurry. His usually sharp gaze softened as it settled on you. "You scared them," he said quietly.

Them. Your subordinates. Your meeting. Work. Your mind tried to chase the pieces, but he shook his head, cutting off the thought before it could spiral. "The meeting's cancelled," he said. "As well as the dinner reservation for the chief and his wife."

It should have felt strange. He never left meetings. Not for anything. But he walked away from it all the moment he heard you’d collapsed.

He sighed, pinching the bridge of his nose. "We'll have to reschedule," he muttered, almost to himself. "Then, announce that you've recovered."