Chapter 2 Life Without Her

If the universe possessed a sense of humor, it was currently expressing it through the medium of Julian Hayes’s morning calendar.

At precisely 7:45 AM, Julian stood in the middle of his lavish apartment living room wearing a crisp charcoal suit jacket, expensive Italian leather shoes, and absolutely no trousers.

"Where are they?" he muttered, frantically tossing throw pillows off his designer sofa. "Where does she keep the gray trousers?!"

For three years, his morning routine had operated on a magical, invisible mechanism known as Vivian Vance. He would wake up, step into a perfectly ironed suit laid out on his valet stand, pick up a steaming mug of black coffee from his kitchen island, grab his pre-packaged lunch, and glide into his private car service without ever contemplating the terrifying logistics of how those items arrived in those locations.

Today, there was no coffee. There were no ironed trousers. And his phone was currently vibrating on the coffee table with the fury of an angry hornet.

Julian lunged across the rug, snatching up the device. "Vivian! Thank God, listen, I can't find the gray"

"Julian? It's Marcus from the front desk."

Julian froze, holding the phone away from his ear to look at the caller ID. It was the head of security for Hayes Logistics.

"Marcus," Julian said, clearing his throat and trying to inject a commanding, executive tone into his voice while standing in his silk boxers. "What is it? I'm extremely busy preparing for the board."

"Right, well, Mr. Hayes, your 8:00 AM coffee delivery didn't arrive," Marcus reported cheerfully. "And the driver for your private town car is downstairs, but he says he doesn't have the updated route to the board's private dining club. He said Ms. Vance usually emails him the GPS coordinates at 7:15 AM sharp."

"Just... tell him to use Google Maps!" Julian snapped, rubbing his temples. "And call Vivian! Tell her to get down here with my matcha!"

"We tried calling her, sir," Marcus replied smoothly. "When we dialed her desk line, it played a pre-recorded message saying she no longer works here. And when I tried her personal mobile, it went straight to an automated message saying her number is no longer accepting calls from our carrier network. I think she blocked the entire corporate directory, sir."

Julian’s jaw dropped. "She blocked the building?!"

"Appears so! Have a great morning, Mr. Hayes!"

The line went dead.

Julian stared at his phone in utter disbelief. Blocked? Vivian couldn't block him! They were a team! They were a package deal! Who was going to fix his tie? Who was going to tell him if he had spinach stuck in his teeth before he spoke to major investors?

Panic, cold and sharp, finally pierced through Julian’s thick armor of arrogance. He sprinted to his closet, grabbed a pair of navy trousers that didn't match his charcoal jacket, threw his tie around his neck without tying it, grabbed his leather briefcase, and bolted out the door.

By 8:15 AM, the executive floor of Hayes Logistics looked less like a premier corporate headquarters and more like the aftermath of a localized natural disaster.

When Julian burst off the elevator, his hair sticking up on one side from the windy street run, he was met by the sight of three junior analysts standing outside Vivian’s empty desk. They were staring at her neatly organized workstation as if it were a museum exhibit of a lost civilization.

"Where is she?" Julian demanded, out of breath, as heAdjusted his mismatched jacket. "Where is Vivian?"

The youngest analyst, a terrified twenty-two-year-old named Toby, squeaked softly. "She's... gone, Mr. Hayes. She handed in her security badge at midnight. We found this on her desk."

Toby held up a thick, leather-bound white binder with a neat gold label that read: JULIAN’S BASIC SURVIVAL GUIDE: VOL. 1.

Julian snatched the binder out of Toby's hands, flipping open the first page.

Written in Vivian's elegant, perfectly legible handwriting was a bulleted list:

Section 1: How to turn on your own computer monitor.

Section 2: The difference between 'Reply' and 'Reply All' (PLEASE READ).

Section 3: How to operate the coffee machine without causing a flood.

Section 4: Why you cannot claim golf balls as a tax-deductible expense.

"This is ridiculous!" Julian roared, slamming the binder shut. "I don't need a survival guide! I am the Managing Director of this firm! I run this office!"

"Um, Mr. Hayes?" Sarah, the newly hired temporary assistant, poked her head around the corner. She looked like she was on the verge of tears, holding a stack of neon-pink sticky notes. "The board of directors is waiting in Conference Room A. They said you were supposed to provide the physical binders for the 8:30 AM presentation?"

"Right! The binders!" Julian said, attempting a confident, dazzling smile that made him look slightly unhinged. "Sarah, where are the blue binders Vivian ordered?"

"Navy," Toby corrected timidly. "Ms. Vance said blue looks cheap."

"Whatever!" Julian yelled. "Sarah, hand me the binders!"

Sarah shrank back. "I... I don't know where she put them, sir! I checked her drawers, but everything is organized in alphabetized color-coded folders! I don't know what any of the codes mean! What does 'Code Crimson' mean?!"

"Code Crimson means the board is about to fire me!" Julian shouted, grabbing his hair. "Find them! Toby, go to the breakroom and make a pot of coffee! A real pot! Not that instant garbage!"

"I don't know how to work the espresso machine!" Toby cried out. "It has fifteen buttons and a steam wand! It looks like a spaceship!"

"Figure it out!" Julian ordered, marching toward Conference Room A with his mismatched suit, his unknotted tie hanging uselessly over his shoulder, and a single manila folder clutched in his sweaty hand.

He paused outside the frosted glass doors, took three deep, meditative breaths, slicked his hair back with his hand, and put on his best, million-dollar executive grin. He pushed the doors open.

"Good morning, gentlemen!" Julian announced grandly, stepping into the room. "I hope you're all ready for a spectacular quarterly—"

CLACK.

Julian’s Italian leather shoe caught the edge of the conference room rug. He lurked forward like a falling redwood tree, his arms windmilling wildly through the air. The single manila folder flew out of his grip, sending fifty loose, uncollated pages raining down over the polished oak table, landing directly into the lap of Arthur Vance, the senior board chairman.

Julian crashed knee-first onto the carpet with a dull thud.

Silence descended upon the room. The six senior board members, all wearing impeccably tailored suits, stared down at Julian over the tops of their reading glasses.

Arthur Vance slowly picked up a single sheet of paper that had landed in his coffee cup. He looked at the soaked document, then down at Julian, who was still kneeling on the floor.

"Mr. Hayes," Arthur said, his voice dropping into a register colder than an Arctic blizzard. "Where is Ms. Vance?"

Julian scrambled to his feet, frantically dusting off his knees. "Ah, Vivian! Well, sir, Vivian is... taking a brief personal sabbatical! A minor leave of absence! But fear not, I am fully prepared to lead this presentation myself!"

"Is that why your jacket is charcoal and your trousers are navy?" another board member asked, squinting over his glasses.

Julian froze, looking down at his legs. "It’s... a new European fashion trend, sir. Color blocking."

"And where are our financial appendixes?" Arthur demanded, tapping the empty table. "Ms. Vance always has them bound, tabbed, and placed at our seats twenty minutes prior to the meeting."

"I have them right here!" Julian lied cheerfully, diving under the table to scoop up the scattered pages. "They're just... currently un-bound! A more modern, interactive approach to data presentation!"

He shuffled the damp papers into a crooked pile and slammed them onto the center of the table. He grabbed the remote control for the digital projector, pointed it at the wall, and clicked the big red button.

The massive wall screen flickered to life.

Instead of the Hayes Logistics quarterly growth charts, the high-definition screen filled with a bright, high-resolution photo of a tropical beach resort, complete with a pop-up window that read: RESERVATION UNPAID: PLEASE ENTER CREDIT CARD DETAILS.

"Ah," Julian squeaked, his face turning the color of a ripe tomato. "That's... my motivational wallpaper."

Arthur Vance slowly took off his reading glasses, letting out a long, heavy sigh that sounded like the death knell of Julian’s executive reputation.

"Mr. Hayes," Arthur said, leaning forward. "This presentation is an absolute disaster. You look disheveled, your data is soaking in my breakfast tea, and you don't even know how to operate your own audiovisual equipment. Ms. Vance was the only reason this department ran with an ounce of efficiency."

"I am the vision!" Julian protested desperately, sweat breaking out on his forehead. "I run the strategy! Vivian just handled the... the busywork!"

"Then I suggest you get your 'busywork' manager back in this room immediately," Arthur said, standing up and buttoning his jacket. "Because without her, Mr. Hayes, you appear to be entirely incapable of functioning as a managing director. This meeting is adjourned."

The board members stood up in unison, gathering their leather briefcases and walking out of the room, leaving Julian standing alone under the harsh fluorescent lights.

Julian collapsed into the nearest leather chair, burying his face in his hands. The room was silent, save for the hum of the projector displaying the unpaid tropical vacation banner.

He pulled his phone out of his pocket, tapped on his contacts, and stared at Vivian’s name.

He tapped 'Call'.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

"The number you have dialed is currently unavailable..."

Julian threw the phone onto the conference table with an agonized groan.

She wasn't throwing a tantrum. She wasn't taking a long lunch. She was really gone. And as Julian looked at his damp, mismatched, disorganized life crumbling around his ankles, a single, horrifying thought echoed through his mind:

How on earth am I going to survive until Friday?