Unlocking Melodies (Oakwood Grove #3)

2. Control Alt Delete

Chapter 2

Control Alt Delete

I used to hate early mornings. Back in college, it was my enemy. Now, it was just another carefully scheduled block in my perfectly optimized life.

“Three more, Mr. Cole,” Marcus said, spotting me on the bench press. He didn't need to count the reps. I never lost count of anything anymore.

The private gym at Cole Tech Tower was state-of-the-art, though that hardly mattered. What mattered was the view. From my position on the bench, I could see my reflection in the floor-to-ceiling windows, superimposed over the city skyline. The effect made it look like I was holding up not just the weights, but the tower itself. Somewhere, my father probably had a metaphor about that.

My watch buzzed. Mia's first message of the day, right on schedule:

Mia

Business integration. Hayes & Reuben particularly vocal. Also, your coffee order changed again?

I finished my set before responding. Perfect form, controlled breathing, no sign of strain. Years of practice made it automatic.

Me

Coffee's fine. Schedule Hayes for lunch next week. Private dining room.

Old money respected old traditions. Hayes had been on the board since before I was born. He responded better to handshakes and eye contact than PowerPoint presentations.

The city was waking up around me as I moved to the treadmill. Six miles, exactly. Not because anyone was counting, but because everyone was always counting. The morning light caught the glass and steel of the tower's upper floors - my office now, though in my mind it would always be my father's. The reflection created a crown of light around the building's peak. Some architect probably thought that was clever. To me, it had always looked more like prison bars.

Mia

Your 8 AM called to confirm. Said her daughter's very excited to discuss ‘synergistic opportunities’.

Me

Cancel it.

Mia

Third time this month. People will talk.

Me

Let them. Reschedule with someone who actually wants to discuss business.

The elevator to my private suite was a marvel of engineering - smooth, silent, and completely isolated from the rest of the building. I adjusted my tie (designer brand of course, because Julia, my personal shopper, insisted it brought out my eyes), and pulled up the morning briefing on my tablet.

Three companies ripe for acquisition. All struggling with innovative products but poor management. All perfect additions to the Cole Tech portfolio. All probably employing people who would hate me by the end of the quarter.

Two PR situations that needed handling. A mid-level manager's inappropriate tweets and a potential leak about our quantum computing project. Nothing Mia couldn't handle, but everything required my sign-off these days.

And one very persistent venture capitalist who couldn't take a hint. Or several hints. Or a direct “no.”

The doors opened directly into my office suite, all glass and chrome and power disguised as minimalism. Mia stood from her desk, coffee in hand. After ten years as my EA, she'd perfected the art of appearing unimpressed by everything, including me.

“One pump vanilla, extra shot, 165 degrees,” she said, handing over the cup. “The Beijing team is waiting in the conference room. They've been up all night running numbers on the semiconductor deal.”

I took a sip. Perfect, as always. “Tell them fifteen minutes. I need to review their latest projections.”

“And your father called. Again.”

I kept walking toward my office. “Tell him that I was in a meeting.”

“You've been in meetings for three weeks.”

“I'm a busy man.”

“He's going to show up here eventually.”

“That's what security is for.”

She sighed that particular sigh she reserved for when I was being difficult. “He still owns forty percent of the company.”

“And I run it.” I paused at my office door. “Any other attempts at parental reconciliation I should avoid?”

“Just the usual voicemails about responsibility and legacy.” She followed me into the office, tablet ready.

“Anything else?”

“Just the board meeting prep, three acquisition proposals, two PR fires, and one very eligible daughter of a venture capitalist to dodge.” She glanced up from her tablet.

I pulled up my private server, the one not even Mia had access to. The folder was still there, unchanged since I'd last opened it: “Midnight Music.” Inside, hundreds of photos I couldn't bring myself to delete. Newspaper clippings I shouldn't have kept. And one video file, dated from our last night together, of two young men playing a piece that never got finished.

My watch buzzed again. The Beijing team was waiting. The board was waiting. The whole damn world was waiting for Ethan Cole, CEO of Cole Technologies, to make his next perfect move.

I closed the folder. Some kinds of control came at a cost. I'd learned that lesson eight years ago.

The Beijing team had been up for twenty hours straight, and it showed. Dark circles under eyes, slightly rumpled suits, that particular mix of caffeine jitters and exhaustion that I remembered from my own late nights closing deals. But their numbers were perfect. They always were.

“Mr. Cole,” Liu Wei, their lead negotiator, began in careful English. “These projections assume a very aggressive timeline for integration.”

I leaned back in my chair, a calculated show of ease. “The semiconductor market waits for no one, Mr. Liu. Neither does our competition.”

“Perhaps,” Board Member Reuben interjected, “someone with more... seasoned experience should review the timeline.” The emphasis on 'seasoned' wasn't subtle.

The room temperature seemed to drop several degrees. I saw Mia shift slightly, preparing for damage control.

“Mr. Reuben.” I kept my voice mild, pleasant even. “Your experience is, of course, invaluable. Particularly your work on the '98 Asian market expansion. Though, if I recall correctly, that initiative took eighteen months to show returns and cost us three major contracts.” I smiled. “But perhaps my younger, less seasoned memory is playing tricks on me.”

Reuben's face went from red to white. The Beijing team suddenly found their tablets fascinating. Even Mia winced.

“Now,” I continued, turning back to Liu Wei, “about that timeline. I think you'll find our integration team has some creative solutions to propose.”

The next hour was a dance I'd perfected over eight years. Lead the discussion but let others feel heard. Show authority without arrogance. Drop casual references to their local customs and culture - just enough to impress without seeming like you're trying to impress.

By the time we wrapped up, we had a deal at 2% under projected budget. The Beijing team looked relieved. Reuben looked like he'd swallowed something unpleasant. And I felt nothing. Just another perfect performance in an endless series of perfect performances.

“Nicely done,” Mia murmured as we headed to my next appointment. “Though I think Reuben might be having chest pains.”

“He's fine. His ego's just bruised.”

“You didn't have to eviscerate him quite so thoroughly.”

“Consider it a teaching moment.” I checked my watch. “Who's at lunch?”

“Peterson Group. They're interested in the quantum computing initiative. Helena Peterson brought her daughter. Again.”

Of course she had. “Cancel it.”

“They're already at Aureole. In the private room. With the wine pairings you pre-selected last week.”

I sighed. “Fine. But you're running interference.”

“Always do, boss.”

Aureole was exactly what you'd expect from a restaurant where lunch could cost more than some people's monthly rent. All clean lines and subtle wealth, designed to make the people inside feel important without being gauche about it.

Helena Peterson waved from the private dining room, her daughter Emma positioned strategically in the seat next to mine. They'd clearly coordinated outfits - cream blazers over silk shells, pearls at their throats. The Peterson family equivalent of battle armor.

“Ethan, darling.” Helena air-kissed somewhere near my cheek. “We were just discussing your brilliant work with the neural interface patents.”

I highly doubted that.

The sommelier approached with the first wine, a Burgundy I'd selected mainly because it was expensive enough to impress without being showy about it. Everything in my life was calculated these days.

“An excellent choice, Mr. Cole.” He swirled the wine with practiced elegance. “This particular vintage carries notes of nostalgia and lost chances. A reminder of paths not taken, opportunities missed...”

The stem of my glass shifted in my grip. Just slightly. A drop of red wine landed on the pristine tablecloth. Most people wouldn't have noticed.

But Mia noticed everything. Her hand was already moving, a subtle signal to the staff. The stained section of cloth was whisked away before Helena could finish her story about running into my father at the symphony gala.

“Speaking of opportunities,” Emma leaned closer, her perfume expensive and wrong. “I heard you're expanding into music technology?”

My chest tightened. “Just patents,” I said shortly. “Nothing concrete.”

“But surely with your background-“ Helena started.

“Market projections,” I cut in smoothly. “Let's discuss the actual numbers behind the quantum computing initiative. I believe you had some concerns about the timeline?”

Business. Safe territory. Numbers and projections and ROI calculations. Nothing about music or background or paths not taken.

“Your father mentioned you used to play,” Emma tried again. “Piano, wasn't it?”

The wine suddenly tasted like ashes. “A long time ago.”

“Oh, you should hear him,” Helena gushed. “Charles says he was quite talented. Such a shame he gave it up for business, though of course, the company needed a strong successor...”

Under the table, my hand curled into a fist. Years of practice kept my face pleasant, engaged. The perfect mask never slipped.

“If you'll excuse me.” I stood, straightening my jacket. “Mia will walk you through the preliminary paperwork. I'm afraid an urgent matter requires my attention.”

Helena's face fell. Emma's carefully constructed smile wavered. Mia's eyes narrowed - she knew there was nothing urgent on my schedule.

But I was already walking away, my steps measured, unhurried. The perfect exit to match the perfect performance. Only the slight tremor in my hand betrayed the truth that all the power lunches and billion-dollar deals in the world couldn't quite bury:

Some kinds of control were just carefully constructed illusions. And some memories refused to stay locked in Practice Room C where they belonged.

The baby grand stood in the corner of my office like a beautiful accusation. Steinway. Hand-selected. Perfectly tuned monthly, though I never played it. Forbes had called it an “intriguing insight into the mind of tech's most enigmatic young CEO.” Architectural Digest had featured it in their spread on “New ’York’s New Aesthetic.” All part of the carefully curated image: the eccentric genius, the wunderkind who'd turned his family's old-money tech company into a bleeding-edge powerhouse.

The afternoon light painted shadows across its polished surface, and my fingers itched to play. But I never really gave in to the urge.

My computer chimed. New error reports from the integration team. Thank god.

I threw myself into the code, letting the familiar patterns of logic and structure wash away dangerous thoughts. Code was predictable. Safe. Each problem had a solution, each bug could be fixed. Not like-

“Sir.” Mia's voice crackled through the intercom. “Your father's here.”

My hands froze over the keyboard. “I'm busy.”

“He used his override code on the elevator.”

Of course he had. Harrison Cole had never let little things like boundaries stop him.

The door opened before I could respond. My father filled the doorway like he always had, his presence making even my carefully designed office feel smaller. His suit was Anderson & Sheppard, his watch was Patek Philippe, and his smile was exactly as warm as it needed to be for whatever game he was playing.

“Son.” He crossed to my desk, his movements softer than usual, almost hesitant. “You're looking tired. Have you been sleeping?”

I didn't stand. Small rebellions were all I had left these days. “I'm in the middle of something.”

“The integration. Yes, I've been hearing things.” He settled into one of my visitor chairs, concern flickering across his features. “The board is worried, Ethan. Not about your competence - never that - but about you.”

“The board needs to trust my team.”

“The board needs to know their CEO isn't running himself into the ground.” He studied me with eyes exactly like mine, his voice gentler than I'd heard it in years. “These recent decisions of yours... they feel personal.”

“You mean my successful decisions? Record profits? Groundbreaking innovations?”

“I mean decisions that seem driven by something deeper.” He leaned forward, his expression softening. “The neural interface project. The music technology patents. These weren't part of our plan, but maybe...” He paused, choosing his words carefully. “Maybe that's not such a bad thing.”

“Nothing about tech is traditional anymore.”

“No, it isn't.” A ghost of a smile touched his lips. “But some things should remain constant. Like fathers looking out for their sons.” He stood, smoothing his jacket with less of his usual precision. “We worked hard to build this life for you, Ethan. Perhaps too hard. I'm beginning to wonder if we focused so much on creating something worthy of your talents that we forgot about what makes you happy.”

The unexpected honesty in his voice made my chest tight. Before I could respond, he turned to leave, but paused at the door.

“Just... take care of yourself, son. Some things matter more than quarterly projections.”

I waited until the door closed behind him before I reached for my tie. My fingers shook as I loosened the perfect Windsor knot. The setting sun caught my reflection in the window - bespoke suit, artfully styled hair, the empty smile I'd perfected for magazine covers.

For a moment, I didn't recognize the man staring back at me.

The piano mocked me from its corner. On my desk, the Best Under 40 CEO award gleamed next to stacks of contracts and acquisition proposals. Everything I was supposed to want. Everything I'd convinced myself I needed.

My phone buzzed. Another message about more problems that needed his attention. More distractions from the hollow feeling in my chest that never quite went away.

The code on my screen blurred. Bug reports and error messages and lines of logic that were supposed to make sense. The life I'd built, the empire I'd expanded, the control I'd perfected - it all felt suddenly fragile, like a house of cards waiting for the wrong breath to bring it down.

Eight years of building this perfect, empty life. Eight years of being exactly who I was supposed to be. Eight years of pretending the music in the corner didn't call to me like a siren song of everything I'd left behind.

The city lights below my office had started to blur into a circuit board of white and red, the kind of pattern that usually helped me think. Numbers and data points normally crystallized in these quiet evening hours when the rest of the tower had gone dark. But tonight, even the market projections on my screen refused to make sense.

I was tired. Not the kind of tired that came from closing billion-dollar deals or outmaneuvering competitors. This was deeper, the kind that sleep couldn't touch. The kind that made you stare at a baby grand piano in the corner of your office and wonder when exactly you'd become a stranger to yourself.

My phone lit up with Liam's name. Our monthly check-ins were usually texts, brief updates about Jimmy that I pretended not to need but couldn't bring myself to stop. Five years ago, Liam had tracked me down at a tech conference, cornered me in the hotel bar, and demanded answers. I'd expected anger, but instead found understanding. Since then, he'd become my silent connection to the life I'd left behind - sending carefully casual messages about Jimmy's career moves, his successes, his life. Always giving me an out, never pushing too hard.

But this wasn't our usual time. And a call instead of a text meant-

“Something's happened.” Liam's voice was tight when I answered. No preamble, no pretense. We'd moved past those years ago.

My fingers tightened on the phone. “Is he-“

“Alive. But there was an attack. He's out of the hospital, and Ethan... he doesn't remember anything. Or anyone. Not the ranch, not the bar, not the last eight years. None of it.”

The world tilted sideways.

My free hand gripped the edge of my desk. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because he needs you. And because I know you. You probably have some alert set up to track news about him anyway, so I figured I'd save you the trouble of pretending you didn't know.”

He wasn't wrong. About any of it.

“I can't-“ I started, falling back on our usual dance of plausible deniability.

“Yes, you can. It's a three-hour drive. Less, in that ridiculous car you keep posting about on social media.” A pause. “He doesn't remember what happened between you. Maybe that's your chance to make it right.”

Five years of monthly updates flashed through my mind. Jimmy taking on new artists. Jimmy expanding his management company. Jimmy happy, successful, living the life I'd stepped away to protect. And now...

I stared at my reflection in the window - perfect suit, perfect hair, perfect empty smile. A carefully constructed facade that had never quite managed to fill the space where music used to live.

“I'll text you the details,” Liam said. “Stop overthinking and just come. He needs you.”

“I appreciate you watching out for him,” I said quietly. “All these years.”

“Someone had to. And you weren't exactly volunteering for the job.” The words held an old hurt, but no real bite. We'd moved past blame years ago. “Though I know you read every update I send.”

“Liam-“

“Just drive, Ethan. Before you convince yourself not to.”

My office phone sat on my desk like a challenge. Six minutes passed in perfect silence - I knew because I counted each second, the way I counted everything these days. Control through measurement. Safety through precision.

On the seventh minute, I pressed the intercom.

“Mia?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Clear my schedule. For the next month.”

A pause. Then, because she was Mia and she'd known me for ten years: “Personal emergency or acquisition research?”

“Both. Neither.” I looked at the piano in the corner, at the life I'd built, at all the walls I'd constructed between past and present.

“The board meeting tomorrow-“

“Dad can handle it.”

“And the Peterson lunch-“

“Cancel everything.”

“Are you sure about this?”

The question hung in the air. Was I sure about anything anymore? About the choices I'd made? About the walls I'd built? About driving back to the one place I'd sworn never to return to?

“No,” I said honestly. “But I'm going anyway.”

“I'll handle everything here.” Mia sounded unsure but didn’t pry any longer.

I was already reaching for my coat, my keys heavy in my pocket. Because no matter how many walls I'd built or how far I'd run, some part of me had always known this truth.

One day, something would bring me back to him. And all my careful control, all my perfect plans, wouldn't be enough to stop it.