Chapter 16
Chapter Sixteen
Theo
The pebbles are cold beneath my bare feet, slick with a thin layer of algae.
My siblings and I are all in the river, playing in the same section we’ve claimed every summer since I was born.
It’s calm and shallow in this section, safe from the pull of the current.
Beyond us, the little country town nestles at the base of the mountain, surrounded by dense forest and fields of wildflowers, with the river cutting through in a long blue ribbon.
Around the bend, there’s an ice cream shop we walk to every night, our footsteps worn into the dirt path leading there.
This place is our home away from home, a secluded world that belongs to us.
Grant and Holden take turns swinging from the rope tree, launching into the water, aiming for each other with a reckless joy that has my mother shouting from the shore to knock it off.
On the opposite bank, Eliza crouches by the rocks, hands hovering over the water as she tries to catch frogs.
Carson clings to my back, his small arms wrapped tight as I wade through the current.
I’m fifteen but built like a full-grown man. From the shore, my parents call out something about grabbing towels before we head in for dinner. They leave me in charge.
The sun is sinking lower, casting golden ripples across the water. I take it all in. The peacefulness, the echoes of my siblings’ playful screams, the river that has always felt like ours.
Until Carson lets go.
His tiny hands slip from my back, and before I can react, he plunges into the water.
The river is fairly shallow, but he’s only four.
He’s too small, too fragile. And he doesn’t know how to swim or hold his breath.
It’s a game he’s been playing, one we’ve told him a hundred times not to do, but he still thinks is hilarious.
I save him right away, lifting him up as he sputters, snorting water through his nose.
His tiny body shakes with coughs, like he can’t quite catch his breath.
I pat his back, murmuring reassurance, carrying him to shore where he wipes his eyes on our dry clothes.
Bouncing him on my knee, I watch as his sniffles fade from hiccuping gasps to nothing at all.
“Theo,” Carson says, pronouncing my name more like Fee-oh. “Thanks for saving me.”
I look down at him. His lashes are still wet with water and tears, hair slicked to his forehead, curling at the ends as it dries.
“Anytime, bud,” I say, ruffling his hair. “Just be careful, alright? No more of this letting-go game.”
He nods, melting into the curve of my arm, safe, as I scan the river, counting heads. One, two, three, four.
I gasp awake.
The memory keeps going, dragging me past the moment where everything was okay and into my real-life nightmare. An eternal punishment for what I’ve done.
The rest of my day only starts to settle when I see Marley waiting outside the building.
I spot her before she notices me, blowing on a thermos of something hot, her heels making every muscle in her legs stand out in a way that shouldn’t be distracting, but absolutely is.
When I get close enough, I lift a hand in a casual greeting.
If this were a different world, I’d be kissing her good morning instead of keeping a careful three-foot distance at all times.
Kissing her two days ago had been like seeing the world in color for the very first time. It made me feel things I never thought were possible. Instantly, I knew I could never go back to that previous black-and-white version. You can’t unfeel something that changed you.
As we walk in together, she recounts a story about a street performer she saw on her way in. Everything about her is effortless, from the airiness of her voice to the way her whole face glows when she tells a story.
Loving her would be the easiest thing in the world. A reaction so natural, it sneaks up on you, until you’re painfully aware it already happened.
I remind myself of the line we drew. The one I can’t ever cross.
I say that like it’s mutual, like she’s struggling with it too.
But the truth is, I’m her boss and a staggering twelve years older than her.
Dynamics like ours don’t last. Besides, she deserves better than a worn-out workaholic who barely has time for himself, let alone her.
We step into the elevator together, and she turns toward me, hip perched against the handrail. “So, how was the rest of your weekend?”
Telling her I spent it repeatedly jacking off to the memory of kissing her on my kitchen counter definitely feels like an inappropriate response, so instead I go with, “Slept in.”
Technically not a lie.
“That so?” She smirks, like she’s holding back. Knowing her, it’s probably something wildly inappropriate—and painfully accurate.
We step out onto our floor, as the overhead lights on sensors flicker to life.
“How was the rest of your weekend?” I ask, hoping to change the subject away from me.
“Eh,” she shrugs. “Watched reality TV, ate leftover Thai food, and tried not to text my boss something wildly inappropriate.” This time she flashes a wide, faux-innocent smile. “You know, the usual.”
I’m hard as a rock as I walk into my office and shut the door. For as many times as I jerked off this weekend, you’d think I’d be tired. Apparently, when it comes to her, that’s impossible.
Settling into my desk, I scan my emails in an attempt to clear my brain and settle my dick. Nothing like a load of the usual corporate bullshit to force you to simmer down. That is, until the theater sale paperwork finalization catches my eye.
Prescott Investment Corp now officially owns The Cobalt.
At two p.m., our financial and real estate teams gather to discuss the sale and future of the venue.
My brother, Holden, takes the lead, running through the numbers I already know by heart.
Demolishing it and replacing it with high-end luxury apartments or office space guarantees a steady, predictable stream of income.
I still have to ask. I need to hear, without a doubt, that keeping the theater is impossible.
When he finishes his presentation, I lean forward. “What would our profit margins look like if we kept the theater? Maybe renovated it and reopened it as a performance space?”
My brother flinches like I’ve suggested something wildly idiotic. Nearly every head in the room snaps toward me, as if they need to double-check that I, the CEO, just proposed renovation instead of demolition.
Scratching his stubble, Holden keeps his expression neutral. “Projected ROI for redevelopment surpasses any scenario where we keep the theater operational.”
Fancy talk for you’re out of luck, and also out of your fucking mind.
I knew that would be the answer. Of course, I did. Still, I was hoping, just this once, that logic and business might align with what I actually want.
The meeting comes to a close, and everyone files out, except Holden. He lingers, throwing out some outlandish farewell to everyone that only he could pull off, grinning as he waves off the last attendee.
The second the door clicks shut, his expression drops. Gone is the effortless charm in his expression, now replaced with something far more skeptical.
He tosses a balled-up napkin at me. “Bro, are you fucking insane?”
I dodge it, leveling him with a glare. “What are you talking about?”
“Renovating and reopening the theater?” He raises a brow, crossing his arms. “Come on. You think I don’t know what you’re up to?”
I’m guilty as hell but will never admit it.
“There will be a lot of public outcry to deal with if we tear it down. It’s been there for decades, after all. I thought there might be potential to keep it.”
“Public outcry, being there for decades …” Holden rolls his eyes. “The only reason you want to try and save it is so you can have sex with your assistant.”
“That’s not what this is,” I snap. “Aren’t you the one coming up with fucking couple names for us anyway?”
He glares at me like he knows he’s struck a nerve. My reaction is clearly saying more than I ever will. But for whatever reason, he decides not to push. Instead, he sinks into the chair beside me.
“Look, I know you care about her. And if things were different, I’d tell you to go for it. But they’re not. You’re her boss. You’re the reason she’s on the verge of losing something that matters. And sometimes the right person shows up when everything else is stacked against you.”
“What happened to your ‘it’s only a matter of time’ spiel?” I shoot back.
“Was I wrong?” He shrugs. “It’s already in motion. You’re falling for her, and making it pretty damn complicated while you’re at it.”
I groan, dragging my hands down my face. He’s fucking right, and no matter how much I want to believe otherwise, some things can’t be fixed. Some choices can’t be undone. And some people, no matter how much they want something, just don’t get to have it.