I was born with a sharp tongue and an absolute inability to swallow my pride, which made holding down a steady job practically impossible. The day I got fired for the ninety-ninth time—after giving my predatory female boss an unfiltered, thirty-minute breakdown of her moral failings—Mr. Antony reached out to hire me as a very unconventional personal therapist for his daughter, Shirley. “If you have the talent to provoke an actual mute into losing their temper,” the elder billionaire had told me over expensive tea, “then maybe you can break my daughter out of her catatonic silence. Cure her psychogenic aphonia, and there is fifteen million dollars waiting for you.” During our very first meeting in the sleek, glass-walled boardroom of Antony Enterprises, I leaned against the mahogany table, took in her icy, rigid posture, and let out an appreciative whistle. “You know, Ms. Antony, if the whole CEO thing doesn’t work out, you’d make a killing modeling on Fifth Avenue,” I drawled. “Rich women would gladly throw black cards at a face like that, especially if you kept signing frantic little silent apologies eight hundred times a minute.” In an instant, Shirley’s composed facade cracked. She glared at me, her chest heaving, and ground out a ragged, trembling sound between her clenched teeth: “Get… out.” I didn’t get out. Instead, I bypassed HR entirely, slid into the role of her personal chief of staff, and turned her pristine corporate kingdom into my own personal comedy club. When she sat through endless quarterly reviews, I leaned over her shoulder, whispering running color commentary. When she ate her meticulously portioned salads, I sat across from her, ruthlessly critiquing the absurdity of modern fine dining. When she retreated to her corner office craving silence, I hovered near her ear, reciting tongue-twisters, unraveling industry scandals, and rattling off petty gossip until a vein ticked visibly in her temple. Three years passed like that. Shirley evolved from a frozen, unapproachable recluse into someone who could trade scathing insults and match my razor-sharp sarcasm beat for beat. The night of her full recovery celebration, the penthouse lounge was humming with laughter and clinking crystal. Someone raised their champagne flute toward us, grinning wickedly. “Come on, Ms. Antony! Devin practically dragged you kicking and screaming back into the land of the living. Turn him from a therapist into a husband already. Isn’t a happily-ever-after the least you owe him?” Shirley swirled the amber bourbon in her glass, the corners of her lips curving into a cool, dismissive smirk. “A desperate, chatterbox lapdog who only moves when he smells cash?” she said, her voice smooth and cutting. “He hardly qualifies for a seat at my table, let alone my bed.” She paused, letting the silence settle like cold dust, before adding, “Besides, Scott is flying back to New York tomorrow. We have unfinished business. I intend to pick up right where we left off.” A ripple of cruel amusement broke through the room. People looked at me with pitying, mocking eyes, silently celebrating my supposed defeat. I just stood there, scratching the back of my neck in mild bewilderment. A lapdog? What on earth was she talking about? Was I supposed to be heartbroken? I was just on the clock. … The entire room waited with bated breath for my devastated outburst. I didn’t have time for a breakdown. My focus was entirely on my phone screen, tapping out a hasty message to Mr. Antony: “Ms. Antony has made a complete recovery. Please process the final escrow payment at your earliest convenience.” Two soft chimes followed almost instantly: “The funds will clear into your account within seven business days.” A wave of pure relief washed over me. I pocketed my phone, smiling to myself, only to realize the music had faded into an awkward hush. Shirley was staring at me, her dark eyes swirling with a tempest I couldn’t be bothered to decipher. Before I could excuse myself, her voice lashed out across the lounge: “Devin! Did you not hear me? I said Scott is coming home. Don’t you have a single word to say about that?” Her sudden, sharp tone caught me off guard. My teeth snapped shut hard against the side of my tongue. A sharp spike of pain shot through my jaw, bringing a sudden sting of tears to my eyes. I swallowed hard, speaking in a muffled, nasal voice: “Oh. Right. Congratulations. Truly. I hope you two have a lifetime of domestic bliss and half a dozen perfect heirs.” Out of the corner of my eye, I saw her tense shoulders drop a fraction. She turned the crystal glass in her hand. “Good. Then you won’t mind accompanying me to JFK tomorrow morning to pick him up.” The metallic tang of blood bloomed on my tongue. I stood up abruptly, smoothing the wrinkles from my suit jacket. “Understood. I’ll be there on the dot. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have urgent personal matters to attend to.” I turned on my heel, but a heavy hand clamped down on my wrist. One of the Antony board members leaned in, an obnoxious, mocking smirk plastered across his face. “Leaving so soon after a few harmless jokes? Come on, Devin, be a man. Don’t be a sore loser. If you’re going to ruin the mood, the house rule is a penalty drink.” I took a slow, measured breath, forcing down the sudden tremor running through my chest. “Social drinking isn’t written into my employment contract,” I said evenly. “However, I’m always open to paid overtime. Ten grand a glass.” The lounge dropped into dead silence. The casual smirk on Shirley’s face vanished completely, replaced by an ominous, suffocating scowl. She pinned me with a venomous glare, holding my gaze for what felt like an eternity before letting out a harsh, dry laugh. “Fine,” she snapped. “Pour.” With the green light given, I didn’t hesitate. I reached for the nearest highball glass, tilted my head, and poured the burning liquid down my throat. Then another. And another. By the end, I lost count of how many ounces of neat liquor had flooded my empty stomach. All I remember is the sudden spinning of the room, my knees giving out, and Shirley’s manicured fingers gripping my forearm with bruising force. She threw a gleaming titanium Centurion card straight into my face. “That’s enough,” she hissed, her voice dripping with disgust. “Take your blood money and get the hell out of my sight.” Fighting off a wave of violent vertigo, I stumbled out into the cool night air and hailed a cab to the nearest emergency room. I barely made it through the sliding doors before grabbing a passing nurse’s scrub sleeve. Right before the darkness dragged me under, a single thought kept my heart beating: “This payout will cover the next quarter’s tuition and boarding fees for every single kid at the shelter.” When I woke up beneath harsh fluorescent lights, my eyelids were swollen and inflamed, likely an allergic flare-up to the cheap spirits. I was in the middle of signing the against-medical-advice discharge papers when my phone buzzed against the bedside table. It was a text from Shirley: “Devin. My stomach hurts.” I rolled my eyes so hard it gave me a headache and tossed the phone into my pocket, intending to leave it on read. But within seconds, the device vibrated again—an incoming call from Mr. Antony. “Devin,” the old man sighed, his voice laden with paternal exhaustion. “Scott lands in the city in a few days… Shirley has fallen right back into her old habit of drowning herself in liquor every night. Could you please bear with her for just seven more days? Just make sure she eats properly, like you always do.” For the past three years, my official title had been personal assistant, but in reality, I had been her chef, her housekeeper, her shadow, and her buffer against the world. But my contract was fulfilled. I opened my mouth to decline, but Mr. Antony cut in smoothly: “I’ll add another million to your fee. Seven days, Devin. Just keep her safe.” Every drop of my lingering reluctance evaporated into thin air. “I’ll be there,” I said, hung up, and immediately rerouted to the nearest high-end organic market. When Shirley let herself into the penthouse later that evening, I was just setting a tureen of slow-simmered herbal restorative soup onto the dining table. Her gaze swept over my pale, swollen face, her brows knitting into a tight knot. She instinctively reached out, her cool fingers hovering inches from my puffy eyes. “Have you been crying?” she asked softly. Before I could lean back and break the proximity, her phone shattered the silence with a shrill ring. She tapped speaker, and a faint, breathy sob spilled into the quiet room. “Shirley… I changed my flight. I’m already in the city, but my cab got rear-ended on the FDR Drive… I’m so scared, my ankle is killing me…” Shirley’s composure shattered. Without a second thought, she pivoted toward the foyer. I happened to be turning around with a bowl of scalding broth in my hands. She slammed straight into me. The boiling liquid splashed across my forearms and soaked through my linen shirt. A strangled gasp of agony tore from my throat as the skin began to blister instantly. Shirley froze, her expression shifting into immediate irritation. “You knew I was rushing out the door! Why the hell were you standing right in my way? Fine—I’ll drop you at the urgent care first—” The trembling voice from the receiver escalated into a desperate wail: “Shirley, please… it’s dark and there’s no one here. My leg hurts so bad, please hurry…” I swallowed the fiery burn on my arms, offering a placid, professional smile. “Honestly, Ms. Antony, I can hail an Uber and get to the clinic myself. Just reimburse me for the medical bill.” She stiffened, holding the phone in mid-air as the desperate pleas continued. Slowly, her hand reached into her designer tote, pulling out a thick envelope of emergency cash. I extended my hand to take it, but with a sharp, dismissive flick of her wrist, the crisp bills scattered across the hardwood floor like fallen autumn leaves. “It really is all about the cash with you, isn’t it?” she sneered, her voice laced with ice. “Fine. Pick up your pennies, crawl to the clinic, and deal with it yourself.” A minor scald wasn’t worth the ER co-pay, let alone the exposure risk with my condition. I calmly fetched the first-aid kit, applied a thick layer of silver sulfadiazine burn ointment, wrapped my arms in sterile gauze, and set about brewing a second pot of soup from scratch. When you’re being paid seven figures, professional ethics demand you don’t cut corners. Once everything was wiped down and simmering, I sank onto the living room sofa, staring blankly at a trashy melodrama playing on the television while I waited for her return. Watching the hollow, overly sentimental romance on the screen, a bizarre lump formed in my throat. Before I knew it, hot, quiet tears were carving tracks down my cheeks. My mind drifted back to the afternoon I first met Mr. Antony. Back then, my former supervisor had unjustly withheld months of my sales commission, leaning over my desk with a heavy, unwelcome hand on my shoulder. “Devin, play your cards right with me, and you won’t have to break your back for pennies anymore.” I had cornered her in her office and delivered a thirty-minute dressing down that left her trembling with rage. It earned me a termination letter, an industry blacklisting, and zero dollars. I remember sitting on the curb of that rain-soaked sidewalk, drowning in sheer exhaustion. I was an orphan, abandoned in a cardboard box on the steps of St. Jude’s Home for Children in the dead of winter. When I was six, a routine cut led to the discovery of a severe, atypical autoimmune condition—my blood struggled to clot properly; the simplest open wound could turn into an uncontrollable hemorrhage. Every medical board advised the aging director of the shelter, Father Thomas, to surrender me to state care. But the stubborn old man refused. He scrimped, saved, and raised me with his own worn hands. Yet, during my very first year in the workforce, Father Thomas suffered a massive, debilitating stroke. Right around the same time, commercial real estate developers moved in, threatening to demolish the crumbling shelter. The catastrophic weight of his medical bills, combined with the daily survival of over a hundred abandoned children, fell squarely onto my young shoulders. Just as I was hovering on the precipice of absolute despair—ready to swallow my pride and go back to that vile supervisor to beg for scraps—Mr. Antony’s black town car pulled up beside me. He offered me a transaction based entirely on mutual benefit. That was the day I learned the truth: Shirley’s psychogenic mutism had been triggered when her childhood sweetheart, Scott, abandoned her out of nowhere. She had locked herself away in a fortress of silence ever since. Mr. Antony wanted me to rattle her cage, drag her back into reality, and heal her. The bounty was fifteen million dollars. When I looked at him with obvious suspicion, the old man had leveled a profoundly piercing gaze at me. “Devin,” he had said softly. “Before all this, Shirley had an anonymous confidant online. Someone she talked to late into the night for years. When that person vanished without a trace three years ago, she nearly lost her mind trying to find him. I’m a thorough man. I know that boy was you.” My hands had trembled violently. Nobody knew. For years, Shirley had simply been an avatar on a glowing screen during my grueling, sleepless nights of studying. While I pushed through textbooks, she lingered on the other end of the fiber-optic cable, keeping me company through the quietest hours of my youth. I had loved her in secret, quietly and hopelessly, until the sky collapsed on me three years ago. When Father Thomas collapsed, I was drowning in emergency debt. I deleted every account, severed every digital tie, and disappeared. I was a penniless nobody; I couldn’t drag her down into the mud with me, and I certainly had too much pride to let her see me begging. Over the past three years at her side, my relentless care had ceased being purely about the paycheck long ago. When she starved herself, I spent weeks mastering nutrition and gourmet broths, practically coaxing every spoonful down her throat. When she stared blankly out of floor-to-ceiling windows, I chattered endlessly, filling her empty world with noise. I approached her with agonizing caution, silently trying to atone for that sudden, cowardly disappearance. Until that one afternoon. I was cleaning up the remnants of an antique porcelain mug Scott had given her, which I had accidentally bumped off the counter. When I heard the front door click open, I rushed toward her with a bright, hopeful smile, holding out a small, elegantly wrapped package. “You’re home! Happy birthday, Shirley. I got this for you.” She barely spared it a glance. With a cold, contemptuous sweep of her arm, she knocked the box clean out of my hands. It crashed against the marble floor. “A gift?” she spat, her voice thick with venom. “A gift bought with my father’s money?” She said a great deal more that day, but my ears were ringing. I stood paralyzed, watching the ruined package. Inside was a vintage mechanical watch I had skipped meals for months to afford—and tucked under the satin lining was a handwritten letter, finally explaining who I was, confessing everything. It lay there, reduced to cheap garbage. Before I could move, she angrily wrested the shards of Scott’s broken mug from my bare hands. A jagged ceramic edge sliced deep across my palm. A terrible, familiar chill rushed through my veins. Shirley stood over me, looking down with an expression of pure, unadulterated disgust. “Devin, you’re doing this for a paycheck. Stop pretending you actually give a damn about me. It’s pathetic. Do you really think someone like you has the right to love me?” I don’t remember much of what followed. All I recall is the warm blood spilling over the marble, pooling faster than I could press it shut, and Mr. Antony rushing through the front door just in time to throw me into the back of an ambulance. I didn’t shed a single tear that night. In the hospital bed, I pulled the stiff white sheet completely over my head. “It’s fine, Devin,” I told myself in the dark. “When you wake up, this pathetic, humiliating crush is officially dead.” The heavy front door clicked open, jarring me out of my memories. I sat there on the couch, my face blotchy and swollen from the movie’s ending, making direct eye contact with Shirley. She was supporting a limping, delicate-looking young man—Scott. For a brief, flickering second, Shirley’s eyes softened as she looked at my face. Then Scott leaned weakly against her shoulder, his voice thin and sweet. “Shirley… is this the personal assistant your father hired for you? My, he certainly seems attentive.” I rose awkwardly to my feet. Shirley’s gaze instantly turned to stone. “Ladle a bowl of the soup and bring it upstairs,” she commanded coldly. “Scott hasn’t eaten all day.” I watched them head toward the stairs, scratching my head in genuine confusion. Her long-lost, golden-boy lover was finally back in her arms. Shouldn’t she be walking on sunshine? Why was she still projecting enough frost to freeze an engine? When I carried the tray up to the guest wing, my heart hitched. My personal belongings had been dumped unceremoniously in a cardboard box outside the doorway. Scott was leaning against the doorframe, his silk shirt unbuttoned at the collar, flashing a gentle, apologetic smile. “So sorry about this, Devin. I’m staying in this suite tonight. I have terrible anxiety sleeping in rooms cluttered with other people’s things.” I masked my expression behind a practiced, deferential corporate smile. “Not a problem at all, Mr. Langdon. The client’s comfort always comes first.” A flicker of triumphant mockery danced in Scott’s eyes. Beside him, Shirley remained entirely silent, the air around her radiating an oppressive, suffocating tension. Having survived three years under her roof, I knew how to read the room. I set the tray down on the console and turned to leave. “Oh, wait,” Scott called out softly, his brow furrowing as he peeked under the lid. “Ah… my personal trainer has me on strict macros this month. This broth looks a little heavy on the sodium.” He reached out, lightly tugging at Shirley’s cashmere sleeve, swaying slightly. “Shirley… could you ask Devin to whip up something a bit lighter? Just a clear vegetable consommé?” I glanced down at my bandaged, throbbing forearms and cleared my throat politely. “My apologies, Mr. Langdon. I sustained a rather severe burn earlier this evening, and spending extended time over the stove isn’t ideal right now. I—” “Didn’t you just say the client comes first?” Shirley’s voice cut through the air like a butcher’s blade. “Now you’re asked for a simple bowl of soup, and you start making excuses? Or do you think an extra million isn’t enough to buy your compliance?” I pressed my lips together. “One million dollars,” I chanted silently in my head. “One million dollars. She signs the checks, she makes the rules.” “Understood,” I murmured, turning around. Suddenly, Shirley’s fingers locked around my wrist, right over the edge of the gauze. The pain flared instantly, but her face was dark, almost tormented. “Devin. Is money really the only thing that matters to you? You’d do anything—endure anything—just for a wire transfer?” The answer came out before I could stop it, stripped of all artifice: “Yes. Money matters.” It mattered so much that without it, Father Thomas’s life-sustaining medications would be discontinued tonight. It mattered so much that without it, a hundred kids who had no one else in the world would be thrown onto the street before the week was out. Shirley’s jaw clenched tightly. For a split second, something resembling deep hurt flickered across her features. I gently, deliberately peeled her fingers off my wrist. Ignoring the searing heat in my skin, I went downstairs and prepared a light broth. Ten minutes later, I carried the fresh porcelain bowl back upstairs. The moment I set it down, Scott’s hand made an awkward, clumsy movement. The bowl tipped, sending the hot liquid soaking straight through the designer duvet. Scott looked up at me, wide-eyed and innocent. “Oh, goodness! My hand slipped. Devin, be a dear and strip the bed, would you?” As I bent down to gather the soaked linens, my phone shrieked violently from my pocket. It was the dedicated line from the private medical center. My stomach plummeted into an abyss. I scrambled to swipe accept, and the nurse’s panicked, frantic voice crackled through the speaker: “Devin! Father Thomas just went into sudden cardiac arrest—his intracranial pressure is spiking! We have to perform an emergency craniotomy right this second!” The blood in my veins turned to liquid nitrogen. I dropped the sheets and bolted for the door. Scott took a quick step sideways, blocking the threshold with a frown. “Leaving your duties half-finished? Shirley, is this the kind of work ethic you pay millions for?” Panic clawed at my throat, my vision blurring with terror. I looked directly at Shirley, dropping all pretense, my voice cracking into an open plea: “Shirley, please. I’ll come back and clean every inch of this room, but the director is dying. I have to go to the hospital right now.” Shirley looked away, her lips curling into a cold, indifferent sneer. “What does that have to do with me? You took the retainer; you do the work.” Those few words hit me like a bucket of ice water poured down an open wound. A violent shudder ripped through me. I shoved past Scott with sudden, desperate strength. “Deduct whatever you want from my pay,” I said, my voice shaking. “Deduct every single cent. But I am leaving. Out of my way!” Scott stumbled backward theatrically, letting out a sharp gasp as he collapsed onto the carpet. “Ah! My ankle… I think he re-sprained it…” A terrifying force struck me from behind. Shirley shoved me violently aside, rushing forward to scoop Scott into her arms with desperate care. I lost my footing, crashing hard against the sharp edge of the doorframe. A white-hot agony shot through my twisted ankle. Holding Scott against her chest, Shirley turned to look down at me, her eyes dead and merciless. “Apologize to him.” Biting through the pain, I dragged myself up against the wall. “I am sorry, Mr. Langdon. But I am out of time. If you want to sue me—” “You are sickeningly selfish, Devin,” Shirley interrupted, her voice heavy with a disgust that sucked the oxygen from the hallway. “In your twisted little world, nothing exists except your greed. Other people’s genuine pain means nothing to you, does it?” She stepped closer, her expression completely devoid of warmth. “Until your shift ends, you aren’t stepping one foot out of this house.” The phone vibrated frantically against my palm again—a rhythmic, suffocating alarm. I closed my eyes, took one final breath, and looked her straight in the eye. “I resign,” I said, every trace of deference wiped clean from my tone. “Find another punching bag, Shirley. I’m done.” … By the time my cab screeched to a halt outside the hospital, the head charge nurse was already waiting in the lobby. “He’s deteriorating fast,” she said, her voice brisk and urgent. “The surgical team is scrubbed in, but the system flagged the account. We need the surgical deposit cleared immediately.” My hands shook as I slid my primary debit card across the granite counter. The receptionist swiped it once. Twice. Then she looked up, sliding the plastic back toward me. “Transaction declined. The account is frozen by the issuing institution.” A cold dread seized my chest. Trembling, I pulled out every backup card I owned—the business account, the secondary checking, the savings where my advance had been deposited. “Frozen.” “This one is locked, too.” “Sir, none of these accounts are accessible.” My entire body went numb. In a daze, I dialed Mr. Antony’s private number. The line connected on the first ring, but before I could speak, a pale hand reached over my shoulder and snatched the phone from my ear. Scott stood there, twirling my phone between his fingers, an easy, charming smile playing on his lips. “Abandoning your post during work hours, Devin? And causing your employer so much stress she had to rush me here in the middle of the night? That really is terribly unprofessional.” I didn’t waste a breath on him. I pushed past him, locking my eyes onto Shirley, who was walking slowly toward us down the sterile corridor, her face impassive. “Shirley,” I choked out, my voice raw. “Why did you freeze my accounts? That money was my legal compensation—” Shirley stopped a few feet away, looking down at me from her designer heels. “Because I am your employer. The funds originated from the Antony trust. I retain full administrative authority over when, how, or if those funds are released.” Without a second thought, my knees hit the freezing linoleum floor. A sickening thud echoed through the quiet lobby. “Shirley, I am begging you,” I whispered, my forehead nearly touching the toes of her shoes. “Please. Keep the rest, hate me forever, do whatever you want—just clear the deposit. It is literally a matter of life and death.” Her pupils contracted slightly. For an instant, her hand lifted, as if an involuntary reflex urged her to pull me up from the dirt. Then Scott caught her sleeve, his voice filled with innocent bewilderment. “Is it really, Devin? My family owns a major stake in this hospital group. I just spoke with the chief of staff on the way here—nobody mentioned an emergency surgery tonight.” Behind them, a senior physician in an immaculate white coat stepped forward, having clearly received his marching orders. “The patient’s vitals are currently stable in the sub-acute wing,” the doctor recited smoothly. “There is no immediate requirement for a high-risk surgical intervention tonight. You are causing an unnecessary scene, young man.” Shirley’s outstretched hand dropped back to her side. The brief flicker of conflict in her eyes hardened into deep, bitter disgust. “Devin. Even now? Even on your knees, you’re spinning theatrical lies just to manipulate money out of me?” I snapped my head up, desperate to scream the truth, but the words died in my throat. A sudden, violent commotion erupted at the far end of the emergency corridor. A disheveled, manic-looking man burst through the double doors, screaming incoherently and brandishing a serrated hunting knife. Instinctively, Shirley stepped in front of Scott, shielding him with her body, while her free hand shot back toward me. At that exact moment, Scott let out a bloodcurdling shriek of terror and lunged forward—shoving me violently into the attacker’s path. I stumbled directly into the blade. A blinding, white-hot line of agony tore across my left forearm, slicing deep down to the bone. Hot, dark arterial blood erupted instantly, soaking through my sleeve and splashing across the white floor. Security guards swarmed the corridor seconds later, violently tackling the assailant to the ground. Scott sat curled against the wall, weeping softly, clutching a superficial scratch on the back of his hand. I leaned against the intake desk, the blood pouring from my arm in steady, unstoppable waves. Black spots were dancing rapidly across my vision. “Help me…” I gasped out, my voice barely a thread. “Please… I have a clotting deficiency… it won’t stop…” Shirley didn’t even look at my arm. Her voice was flat, merciless, and final. “Tend to Scott first. Someone who lies about life and death to extract money doesn’t get priority.” She paused, casting a cold, cynical glance over my bleeding form. “Let’s see if a simple scratch is really enough to kill you, Devin.” She wrapped an arm around the sniffling Scott and guided the trauma team toward the private treatment suites. The blood continued to cascade down my fingertips, pooling warmly beneath my boots. The world tilted violently on its axis. My vision went completely black, and my knees finally gave out, sending me crashing into the cold, red floor. … On the third day of Devin’s complete disappearance, Shirley’s carefully constructed composure finally snapped. She stared at her phone for an hour before typing out a text: “Devin. I am willing to overlook your insubordination and disrespect, and I will unfreeze your compensation accounts.” “Report back to the penthouse immediately, apologize properly, and we will pretend this never happened.” She hit send. A stark, bright red exclamation point immediately flashed on the screen. “Message failed to deliver. You are blocked by this recipient.” Shirley’s brow furrowed in sudden fury. She dialed his number without hesitation. Before her anger could spill through the line, a hollow, automated voice greeted her ear: “The number you have dialed is no longer in service. Please check the number and try again.” With an irritated curse, she hurled the phone against the plush Persian rug and buzzed her executive secretary. “Where is Devin? He hasn’t reported to the office and his phone is off. Have security bring him to my office immediately!” The secretary entered slowly, keeping her head bowed as she cautiously placed a manila folder onto the mahogany desk. “Ms. Antony… this is Mr. Devin’s official resignation paperwork. The effective termination date was logged one week ago.” She hesitated, her voice dropping to a near whisper. “His emergency contacts have all been severed, his apartment lease was terminated, and his personal accounts were closed out yesterday. We… we have no way of reaching him.”
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