Power didn't demand attention.
It demanded time.
By the second week in my new role, my calendar looked like a battlefield—back-to-back meetings, decisions layered with consequences, emails that couldn't wait.
I wasn't overwhelmed.
I was… stretched.
The first sign came late one evening, when I realized Arvan and I hadn't spoken properly in three days.
Not because of distance.
Because of momentum.
When I finally saw him across the boardroom table, his expression was calm—but his eyes searched mine.
"You're running on discipline," he said quietly. "Not rest."
"I'm fine," I replied automatically.
He didn't argue.
That worried me more than if he had.
The pressure surfaced during a cross-division review.
A senior executive leaned back and said, "This decentralization sounds idealistic. Someone has to be accountable."
I didn't hesitate.
"I am," I said.
The room went still.
"And if it fails?" he pressed.
"Then I own it," I replied evenly. "But I won't trade progress for fear."
After the meeting, Legal pulled me aside.
"You're accumulating influence fast," they said carefully. "That comes with scrutiny."
"I'm aware," I replied.
They nodded. "Good. Because the board is watching closely."
That night, Arvan found me still in the office.
"You missed dinner," he said.
"I forgot," I admitted.
He didn't mask his concern this time.
"This is what power takes," he said quietly. "If you let it."
I closed my laptop slowly.
"I won't disappear," I said. "Not into work. Not from you."
He studied me for a long moment.
"I believe you," he said. "But I need you to believe yourself too."
We sat in silence for a while—two leaders learning the weight of what they carried.
"I was warned," he said finally. "That loving someone this driven would mean choosing patience."
"And I was warned," I replied, "that power would test what mattered."
Our eyes met.
"This is the test," he said.
"Yes," I agreed. "And I don't want to fail it."
He reached for my hand—grounding, not claiming.
"Then don't pay the price alone," he said.
Outside, the city kept moving—unaware of the quiet choices being made inside glass walls.
Because power always asks for something in return.
The question wasn't whether I could afford it.
It was whether I could define the cost.