He's doing it again. Mohamad forces his gaze back to the screen. Quarterly earnings dashboard. Consolidated revenue across pharmaceutical divisions. Pipeline performance metrics. Regulatory approval timelines. Phase IV post-market surveillance data. Launch adoption curves. Global distribution forecasts. Important. All of it.
His eyes shift. The phone sits on the desk. Silent. He looks back to the screen. Estravax — post-launch performance. Revenue growth: +482%. Market penetration exceeding projections. Insurance adoption accelerating. Hospital procurement contracts expanded across three regions.
His gaze drifts again. The phone hasn't moved.
Waiting.
The realization forms — he pushes it down immediately. Eighteen days. She knows his number. She's using the phone he gave her. The only number stored in it — his. Eighteen days. Four hours. Forty-two minutes.
His eyes close briefly. Focus. Something inside his chest tightens. A twisting pressure. Irritating. Persistent. He ignores it. Focus.
His eyes return to the screen. Projected EBITDA margins. Manufacturing cost reductions.Supply chain optimization. Clinical expansion into secondary indications. The words blur. His gaze shifts again.
Still nothing. His jaw tightens.
Mohamad pushes back from the desk abruptly. The chair slides a fraction too far. He stands. Movement feels necessary. His body refuses stillness. He paces the length of the New York penthouse. Once. Twice. Controlled strides. Measured. But faster each pass. He stops. Hands on his hips.
Why hasn't she called? The question surfaces before he can suppress it. She can't be angry. He didn't do anything wrong.
His jaw hardens. He gave her space. That's what she wanted. Independence. Freedom. No pressure. No obligation. So why—Why hasn't she called?
The silence feels louder now. Accusatory. His eyes flick toward the desk again. The phone remains exactly where he left it. Waiting. He turns away sharply. She knows where he is. She knows how to reach him. If she wanted to speak — she would. That's logical. Rational. Consistent. And yet — something tightens further in his chest. Sharp. Irritating. He exhales slowly, forcing it down.
Focus. He returns to the desk. Sits. Pulls the financial model back onto the screen. Revenue projections. Cash flow forecasts. R&D allocation for next quarter. His eyes shift again. The phone remains silent.
His eyes shift again. The phone remains silent.
Something tightens in his chest. Hasn't she missed him yet? She should have by now. She always does. The pattern is consistent. Predictable. She reaches first. She closes distance. She returns.
Why hasn't she called?
His fingers still against the trackpad. Is she waiting for me to go to her? The thought unsettles him immediately. He rejects it. No. He doesn't chase. He doesn't explain. He doesn't apologize. Those aren't… necessary. Not with her. Not with anyone.
His jaw tightens. This is her fault. She shouldn't have made a big deal out of that lipstick. A meaningless detail. Irrelevant. He hadn't even noticed it until she did. And yet she looked at him like—
His grip tightens slightly. Why does she trust him with her life… but not trust him with this? The contradiction irritates him. He doesn't understand it. He doesn't like not understanding.
That damned woman. His gaze drifts again to the phone. Still nothing.
He exhales slowly. He's not faithful. The thought comes calmly. Objectively. A fact. He could have anyone. At any time. He always has. There's no promise between them. No agreement. No exclusivity.
So what exactly does she expect? His fingers tap once against the desk.
What am I supposed to do now? The question forms before he can stop it.
He stills. He doesn't know. That realization settles heavier than he expects. He's never been here before. Negotiations — he knows. Conflict — he knows. Retaliation — he knows. Acquisition — control — elimination — all familiar.
But this… There's no framework. No strategy. No clear next move. The uncertainty presses quietly against his chest. Uncomfortable. Unfamiliar. Dangerous.
He straightens slightly, forcing control back into place. Should he send her something? A gift. Flowers. Jewelry. Something rare. Something she'd like.
His jaw tightens almost immediately. No. That would imply fault. He did nothing wrong. He won't apologize for something he didn't do.
Silence stretches again. His eyes shift to the phone. Still waiting. He leans back slightly, gaze fixed on nothing in particular. If she wants him — she'll call. That's how this works. That's how it has always worked.
And yet — his eyes drift back to the phone again, almost against his will.
Still silent.