Aetherland

Chapter 4: The Ring (part 4)

Upon arriving home, still reeling from his disappointing encounter with his fiancée, Ash's exhaustion threatens to overwhelm him.
The door clicks shut with a resounding sound, echoing through the stark stillness of his minimalist abode. Each deliberate footstep reverberates down the immaculate hallway, a jarring discord against the tranquility he so desperately seeks.

The guards, dressed in impeccably tailored suits, blend into the luxurious surroundings, their brows furrowed in silent concern, standing at rigid attention, a reflection of the tension that hangs heavy in the air. Ash collapses onto the austere sofa, its luxurious cushions doing little to assuage the turmoil that roils within him.

With a growl of frustration, he tosses his belongings onto the sleek coffee table, the dissonance of metal on glass jarring against the backdrop of minimalism. A discordant array of personal effects sprawls across the polished surface: cold steel of keys and screwdriver, the predatory silhouette of a pistol, the incongruous whimsy of a cartoon USB drive with a mischievous grin, and the sleek contours of a smartphone… each object an extension of the man that Ash struggles to be.

Amongst the clutter, a thin, slightly crumpled envelope slides out from under his phone. He glances at it, a flicker of annoyance crossing his face. It’s a statement, related to a cancelled campaign. Six months ago, it had been his announcement to the world… or at least, that's how it was supposed to be. Now, it's just a bureaucratic headache, a series of the last wave of payments and refunds, a constant reminder of what never came to be. He shoves the envelope aside, a fresh wave of irritation washing over him of his foolishness, his failure.

The silence is a stark contrast to the relentless flash of cameras and the suffocating press of well-wishers. He barely escaped the relentless onslaught. Now, within the sanctuary of his home, he expects a moment of respite. He is wrong. His phone, lying face up on the table, lights up with a soft glow. He picks it up, expecting a few stray notifications, but the screen is a barrage of color and icons. Hundreds of notifications flood the lock screen, a digital avalanche of congratulations.

His stomach clenches. Each notification is a reminder of the charade. He scrolls through the endless stream of messages: family, colleagues, acquaintances, allies, ambassadors and ministers from distant lands, even distant relatives he hasn’t spoken to in years. All of them gush with excitement about his impending nuptials. He skims past the generic well wishes, his thumb scrolling faster, a desperate, almost frantic search begins to take hold. He isn’t looking for congratulations. He is looking for something else, something specific.

He finally finds it, buried beneath a mountain of digital confetti. It is a message from Larissa, but the date stamp hits him like a physical blow: Three days ago. He hasn’t even seen it.

"High Commissioner, I've started checking the local news for reports of missing diplomats. Please call before I start posting 'Have You Seen This Person?' flyers around the embassy.
I've made a list of all the possible scenarios, from 'you're fine' to 'you've been abducted by aliens.' A call would help me narrow it down."

He rereads the message, his eyes lingering on the words "please call" He knows what she is really asking. She isn’t just concerned about the public spectacle; she is concerned about his well-being, and knows the toll this sham is taking on him. She needed a word of comfort, a brief confirmation that she wasn't alone, and he left her wondering for three days!

He opens his phone again, the screen’s cold light illuminating the worry etched on his face. His thumb hovers over her name, a digital precipice. He craves the sound of her voice, a balm to soothe the rawness of his regret. He imagines the words tumbling out, apologies spilling over each other. I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to. I just… But the words catch in his throat. He flinches away from the phone, as if burned. The bright screen reflects his own troubled expression.