Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter 25
DECLAN
THE SHARP GLOW OF THE computer screen cuts through the shadows, the only light in my otherwise dark office. I’ve drawn the curtains, shutting out the world and my employees, trying to lose myself in the demands of my company. But it’s a futile effort, and my team has been picking up a lot of my slack lately.
Thank God I have such amazing employees; I can forgive them for whispering behind my back and giving me wary stares. They’re not used to seeing me in wrinkled slacks and plain T-shirts, with a beard sprouting on my face and my hair caked with dry shampoo. It’s clear something is wrong, so I understand the gossip.
If it wasn’t so difficult to be alone at home with my thoughts, I wouldn’t even bother coming in. Home is so tormenting that I even asked Sean to move into a guest room temporarily. He’s getting paid, of course, and doesn’t seem to mind since he doesn’t have family. But I still feel pathetic for asking.
In the past, when I went through difficult periods, I relied on women to warm my bed and provide superficial comfort. Now I can’t even fathom being with any other woman except her .
My thoughts always circle back to her. Sienna.
I pull up a financial report on my computer. I have to stop thinking about her. She left in a cruel way, and I can’t change that.
I force myself to look at numbers. They seem low, so I grab my desk phone and buzz Davis.
“What’s up?” he answers.
I rub the back of my neck, trying to focus. “I’m looking at the Q2 report. What’s going on with our Executive Protection division? The numbers seem off.”
“Off how?”
“Revenue is down. I thought we’d improved those numbers since last quarter.”
“We did,” Davis says. I hear the clack of his keyboard. “Uhh…yeah, I’m looking at the report right now. We’re up five percent from projections. Not as strong as our cybersecurity growth, but still an improvement.”
What is he talking about? “That’s not right.” I scroll through the document again, frustration mounting. “I’m looking right at it. Page twelve. The numbers are down.”
There’s a lot of clicking on his end. “Well, it’s actually page fourteen, but I’m looking at it too. EP has shown growth.”
A sinking feeling settles in my stomach. I check the header of the document and close my eyes, exhaling slowly. “Shit. It’s the Q1 report.”
Davis is silent for a moment, then clears his throat. “Do you want me to send over the current Q2 report?”
“No,” I say, pinching the bridge of my nose. “No, I see it now in the folder. Thanks.”
I hang up before he can respond and before I can feel stupider. This isn’t like me. I’m usually on top of things, always three steps ahead. But lately…
I swivel my chair to face the blackout curtains and give myself a break from the computer screen. I need to stop lingering on a past I can’t change.
It’s been two weeks since Sienna stormed out of that hotel suite, since she ruthlessly stabbed every vulnerable part of me. Two weeks of replaying every moment, every conversation, trying to understand what the hell happened. One minute, I was experiencing an unparalleled high. The next…
It’s still hard to understand how those words came out of those lips I had kissed so many times.
I grab a pen off my desk and start clicking it. Click click click.
I can’t make any fucking sense of anything. Can’t reconcile the woman who looked at me with such tenderness and warmth with the one who cut me to the core with her cold, empty goodbye.
The change was too sudden, too drastic. Was the entire trip a lie, then? Was every smile, every laugh, just to make me look like a fool?
I don’t want to believe it. Because I’ve fallen for her. Deeply, irrevocably. In a way, I haven’t allowed myself to fall in years, not since…
Not since Tiffany.
My thumb is aching from clicking the pen so violently, so I switch hands.
Click click click.
Sienna’s gaze was…decisive, hardened.
Like she was purposefully trying to hurt me.
If I really concentrate, I can remember cracks in that icy glare. Or maybe I’m imagining it, trying to force a narrative that doesn’t exist. My mind keeps trying to reconcile the moments before the bathroom and the ones after.
Before: A worried, nervous Sienna showed me the portrait. We made love. There was no hint of bitterness, no resentment simmering beneath the surface.
After: An angry, destructive Sienna twisted a knife in me with surgical precision, finding every chink in my armor, every insecurity I thought I’d buried.
Why?
I close my eyes, dropping the pen to hold my head. I know I can’t keep doing this, running in circles, but I can’t shake the feeling that there’s more to the story. My gut is screaming at me that something isn’t right. That what she said was lies.
But is that thought only a weak attempt to comfort myself?
Was she really speaking the truth?
Could I have driven Tiffany to…
There’s a sharp twist in my gut, so I push away from my desk, opening a drawer. I grab a bottle of antacids and swallow two. I finish with a shot from the whiskey bottle I keep in another drawer. I’m a horrible boss for drinking on the job, but some days I need a shot to take the edge off.
I’m clearly not good at dealing with my emotions.
Lifting my desk phone, I buzz Davis again.
“Yeah?” he answers.
“Can you come in here, please?” I swallow some water because my voice feels like rocks crashing around in my throat.
“Sure.”
My office chair creaks as I lean back and wait for Davis.
The door opens, spilling light over the tile, and Davis appears, his tall frame filling the doorway. He’s dressed impeccably as always, his dark hair styled and his hazel eyes sharp. But when his gaze lands on me, all of his neatness wrinkles. “What’s up?”
“Come in and close the door.”
“Into this vampire’s den?” he tries to say lightly, but it’s clear that worry is dragging his tone down. “Can I at least turn on some lights?”
“No.”
“Ookay.” He closes the door and fumbles through the dim light, hitting his shins on a low table. “Fuck, that’ll leave a bruise,” he grumbles. He finally makes it to the chair in front of my desk. Still wincing, he asks, “Are you finally going to tell me what’s been going on?”
“No.”
“Ookay.” He crosses an ankle over his knee and waits.
I swallow more water, my voice feeling better lubricated. “I have a question for you, and I need your honest opinion. No bullshit. Don’t spare my feelings. This is important, and I need the absolute truth.”
He uncrosses his leg and leans forward. “Yeah. You know I always give it to you straight. What is it?”
My words are lead, filled with fragments of regret and torment that only seem to snowball the more years that pass. “Am I the reason that…Do you think being with me, or dealing with me, was what led Tiffany to—”
“No.”
His firm response makes me exhale, but it doesn’t erase the insecurities. “Are you certain? Maybe I put too much pressure on her. Or there’s something about my personality that—”
“Stop. No, Declan. You can’t blame yourself.” His eyes lock with mine and that natural magnetism he has means I can’t look away. “I’m absolutely certain it’s nothing you did. She…Tiffany was struggling even when she was a kid. And you did more for her than I think anyone else ever did. You were supportive and kind and patient…You know, my wife still says things like, ‘Declan rented out an entire restaurant for his wife on Valentine’s Day, and you won’t even buy me flowers!’ I bought her jewelry yet somehow not having flowers”—he frowns—"Anyway…" His eyes scan my growing beard and sunken eyes and unclean hair. He scoots his chair closer to the desk. “What’s going on?”
For a moment, I consider telling him everything, but as I open my mouth, the pain is too fresh for me to get the words out. But I tell him what I can. “I met someone. It didn’t work out. I don’t think I can talk about it yet.”
“Wow,” he says under his breath. “Like, someone serious? A relationship?”
I can’t deal with the questions or probing, even though I appreciate him wanting to talk and let me vent. “It’s hard to talk about right now, but thanks for…”
He nods, standing. “Of course. When you’re ready to talk, I’m here. Just…just don’t ever think of blaming yourself for Tiffany, alright? That’s not even a question. Everyone knows how much you loved her. She also knew how much you loved her, no matter what her condition made her think sometimes. You founded this multi-million dollar, comprehensive security firm just for her so she’d never have to worry about money, and you did it without having a tech or business background. It was sheer willpower. I’ve been with you from the beginning and I still don’t know how the hell you did it.”
My throat is tight, so I lower my gaze.
Sensing my mood and my need to be alone again, he moves to the door. When he reaches it, he hesitates. “Hey, before I leave…Is there any action you want to take about the email?”
“What email?”
His body becomes rigid. “Oh…Uh, I thought because you were asking about Tiffany, you saw the latest email…”
I barely register his words before I’m clenching my jaw and swiveling to face my computer screen. “What did the fucking asshole send now?”
“It’s not good. More of a direct threat.” Davis crosses my office, moving closer to look at my screen. “It was sent to your address on the old server. Sent this morning. No one except me has seen it. I was trying to find a good time to tell you. Sorry.”
My blood turns to ice as I read the subject line: The World Should Know.
The email itself is blank, but there’s a PDF attached. I open it, scanning the details. The whiskey I swallowed starts coming back up—I’m staring at the confidential police report and medical examiner’s report about Tiffany’s death.
My fists clench as adrenaline surges through every cell. Davis waits, giving me time to collect my thoughts, but it’s a struggle to string them together.
“Why?” is all I can manage.
Davis has worked with me long enough that he intuitively understands what I’m asking. His gaze shifts to the black curtains as his body slumps from the gravity of the email. “I honestly don’t know why this person is threatening to share these records with the public. They haven’t asked for money, so what do they gain from this?” His tone sounds a lot like defeat. “I think it’s time we get an attorney involved. Since you didn’t get those records sealed legally, if this person does expose them—”
“I’d be looking at an investigation,” I say, finishing his sentence.
“Yeah,” Davis breathes.
“Fuck.”
I’ve done nothing else illegal in my life. I just couldn’t face the public knowing about my son; I didn’t want Tiffany’s family to go through that pain because we hadn’t yet told them about the pregnancy. Tiffany had wanted to wait until she was farther along and felt more stable.
Losing their daughter was bad enough. I didn’t want to throw grandson on top of that.
“Fuck,” I say again to myself.
It was one fucking bribe to get one detective to ‘lose’ those reports, so he had to file new ones that didn’t mention my son. At the time, it felt like a minor, inconsequential thing.
How the hell did this hacker even get the originals?
I feel a familiar tightening in my gut, the same tension I used to feel before stepping into the ring. This is a fight, and I intend to win.
Before I can think better of it, I hit reply, my fingers flying over the keys as I type out an email: What is your end goal here?
I hit send, my body buzzing with the need to physically face my opponent. A part of me knows I shouldn’t engage, shouldn’t give them the satisfaction of a response. But I want to understand. Who the fuck is this?
To my knowledge, I haven’t made any enemies who hated me enough to dig into my past this deeply. And this person would need some serious clout and a huge vendetta to obtain these documents. Yet, no one from my boxing days was that kind of person, and the business owners I’ve pissed off wouldn’t fight this dirty. They’re all too busy with their lives and work to care.
If this person wants money, I’ll gladly pay it to stop this nightmare. So why haven’t they asked? If this isn’t blackmail, why?
Why do this?
I’m tired of the games, tired of the cryptic emails. I want answers.
A minute passes. Then two. Just as I’m about to close the email in disgust, a new email pops up: To make you pay. Don’t touch another man’s things.
The words glare at me from the screen. Pay for what?
I start typing: What the fuck are you—
Davis is suddenly beside me. He touches my shoulder. “No. Stop. You might make it worse. We need to talk to our lawyers first.”
Pulling my hands away from the keyboard, I lean back in my creaky chair with an exhale. “Fine. See what they have to say. Get our team to find this asshole.”
“Okay,” he says softly. He leaves, shutting the door quietly behind him.
I regret never installing a punching bag in my office because I could use one right about now. I’m debating having another shot, but that’s not the right course of action. As much as I want to numb myself and escape emotionally, I need to stay clear-headed to protect my employees. If I’m exposed for bribing a detective, the company might go down with me. Shareholders are very sensitive to everything a CEO does, even if it has nothing to do with the company itself.
I grab my pen to click it again. I’ll wait to see what the lawyers say, but if it comes to it, I’ll step down as CEO. I won’t let my company’s reputation tank just because of something I did in my personal life. My existence feels unimportant at this point, so I don’t care what happens to me. Maybe I’ll end up in jail.
Doesn’t matter; this company and its employee’s livelihoods are the priority.
I only get a few moments alone to think before my secretary buzzes me. “Mr. Conte? There’s someone here to see you and she’s very insistent that it’s, as she put it, ‘insanely important to see the man in charge right this second.’ I know you said not to disturb you, but she seems very on edge and I’m worried. She made a fuss with security downstairs, so I told them I would speak to her. She’s still making a fuss and says she knows you and that you’re expecting her. Do you know a Miss Jada Wilson?”
Jada Wilson?
I wrack my brain but come up empty. Since I don’t know who she is and I have a lot of serious threats to handle, I tell my secretary, “No. Tell her I apologize, but I can’t meet right now. Get her contact info and we’ll—”
“Hey, stop,” my secretary says, her voice muffled. “No, you can’t—”
“Mr. Conte?” A new voice says quickly. “Have you seen Sienna?”
The name rings in my ears and my pulse spikes. Before I can respond, it sounds like my secretary has wrestled the phone from the woman’s grasp.
“I am so sorry,” my secretary says, breathless. “I’ve already buzzed security to—”
“No, bring her back. Please.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. Thank you.” I hang up. Then I open the curtains, the ground swaying as I squint against the blinding sun. I pace nervously for the two minutes it takes my secretary to escort the woman to my office.
After a light tapping, my secretary opens the door, her red hair frizzy from her recent scuffle. She gives me a polite nod and then frowns hard at Miss Wilson before leaving.
I don’t recognize the woman, but she’s average height with incredible posture. Light brown skin, blue jeans, a loose purple blouse; her braids are pulled back into a low bun.
Despite her posture and natural grace, there seems to be a gloom following her. There are puffy, purplish bags under her bloodshot eyes, and a lot of dark grooves around her mouth. She moves forward swiftly to hold out her hand. “I’m Jada.”
I shake her hand. “Declan. You know Sienna?”
She looks me up and down cautiously, probably not expecting a CEO to look like such a slob. Then she hooks her thumbs around the backpack straps over her shoulders. “Yeah. I’m really sorry about this. Showing up here when you’re busy. I…I just thought you might know where Sienna went? She, I think, met you a few months ago at the Fine Arts Museums Gala. She disappeared and I’m trying to find her.”
My hand is shaky from my increased heart rate, but I motion to a chair. “Please, have a seat.” I close the office door and then cross to my desk, sitting. “I do know Sienna, but I don’t know where she is.”
Jada doesn’t sit, her unnaturally golden eyes—which are colored contacts—looking glassy. She drops her head. “Oh. Well, I’m sorry to bother you then. I’m just really worried about her. But I’ll go.” She turns toward the door. At the same second I say “Wait,” she notices Sienna’s color study on the wall. She rushes to it, reaching up to take the small canvas off the wall. “Why do you have this?”
When Sienna stormed out of the suite, she left behind my portrait and the small canvas with the couple and the man on top of the stairs. Maybe it was a bad idea since it’s part torture, but I had to hang them up—one here, the other at home.
I like having a piece of her close, even if she destroyed me in the end.
“It seems we have a lot to tell each other, Jada.” I motion at the office chair. “Please, sit.” A sudden calm and stability rises inside me. I think I’m finally on the verge of getting answers and the adrenaline is clearing my head.
I wait until Jada replaces the painting, and then sits on the edge of a chair. Then I fold my hands on the desk and lean forward. “Please. Start at the beginning and tell me everything.”