Maya blinked. “You cleared a month.”
“I own the company.”
“That’s not how that works.”
“It is when people are afraid of disappointing me.”
She shook her head. “This is temporary. You’re reacting.”
“Probably.” He held her gaze. “I’m still doing it.”
The first week home was humiliating.
Not because Taylor was cruel. He wasn’t. That would have been easier to resist. The humiliation came from slowness. From needing help in ways she hated. From walking ten minutes and feeling winded. From sitting at the kitchen island while a nutritionist named Elena, warm-eyed and unsentimental, asked careful questions about food, routine, fatigue, emotional triggers, sleep. From seeing her own habits mapped without judgment and therefore without an easy enemy.
Taylor sat through the sessions only when Maya allowed it. He spoke less than she expected. When he did, it was to ask practical questions: grocery structure, sodium thresholds, realistic exercise progression, medication timing. Elena answered him the way one speaks to intelligent people who are in danger of trying to optimize a human being into disaster.
“You are not building a machine,” she told him on the second day. “You are helping a tired person develop repeatable choices.”
He nodded like she was negotiating a merger.
Maya learned to take her blood pressure in the mornings while the coffee brewed. She learned which foods left her feeling steadier, which sent her crashing. She learned that the body remembers neglect not as punishment but as suspicion. It does not trust improvement right away.
Taylor changed with her in ways she had not asked for and did not know how to stop. He stopped drinking whiskey at night. He canceled late dinners. The catering menus that used to arrive like trophies disappeared. He ate what she ate, even when she told him not to be absurd. He woke at five-thirty and knocked on her door at six with two bottles of water and sneakers in his hand.
The first morning she told him to go to hell.
He leaned against the doorframe and said, “At six a.m. I assume that means good morning.”
She took the water anyway.
They started in Central Park because Elena said real air helped more than a treadmill when people were afraid of their own bodies. The park at dawn in April was damp and silvered. Joggers moved through the paths like shadows. Dogs strained happily at leashes. The city at that hour had not yet hardened into noise. Maya wore old black leggings and a sweatshirt she had slept in once by accident and never stopped wearing because it smelled like safety. Taylor wore a dark track jacket over a plain T-shirt and looked annoyingly competent at everything, including carrying two coffees and pretending not to notice when she had to stop after twelve minutes.
“I can’t,” she said the first day, bent slightly, hands on hips, breath uneven.
“Yes, you can.”
“No, I physically—”
“I know what you meant.” He came back and stood in front of her, blocking the path so she had to look at him. “I’m not asking for a mile. I’m asking for thirty more steps.”
“That’s manipulative.”
“It’s specific.”
She glared. “You always do this.”
“Do what?”
