Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Dax
The conference room on the forty-second floor has floor-to-ceiling windows that overlook Manhattan. I'm seated at the head of the table, my laptop open in front of me, reviewing the final slide of the presentation I just walked through.
Across from me sit three executives from Sterling Media Group—a mid-sized company we're in advanced talks to acquire. Robert Mitchell, their CFO, is leaning back in his chair, arms crossed. Jessica Torres, their COO, is taking notes. David Kane, their CEO, is the one asking most of the questions.
"The integration timeline concerns me," Kane says, tapping his pen against the table.
"Six months feels aggressive given the complexity of our systems."
"It is aggressive," I agree, keeping my tone measured.
"That's intentional. The longer we wait to integrate operations, the more revenue we lose to inefficiencies. Our team has done this successfully with three other acquisitions in the past eighteen months."
Mitchell leans forward.
"What's the success rate on those integrations staying within budget?"
"One hundred percent." I pull up a document on my laptop and turn the screen toward them.
“Here are the post-acquisition reports. Every timeline met, every budget maintained."
Torres studies the document, her expression thoughtful.
"That's impressive."
"We don't make promises we can't keep," I tell her.
"Sterling Media has strong assets. We want to preserve what works while eliminating redundancies. That's the value proposition."
Kane exchanges glances with his executives, then nods.
"Alright. Send over the revised integration plan by end of week. We'll review with our board."
"You'll have it by Thursday." I stand, extending my hand.
"Thank you for your time."
We shake hands—Mitchell, Torres, Kane—professional and cordial. My assistant Emma appears at the door to escort them out.
"I'll see you to the elevators," she says with a polite smile.
They file out of the conference room, and I gather my laptop and files. The meeting went well. Sterling Media is a good acquisition—solid revenue streams, minimal overlap with our existing properties. The deal will close within sixty days if their board approves.
I walk down the long corridor to my corner office, past cubicles where analysts are buried in their screens, past conference rooms where other meetings are underway. This is my world. Numbers, strategy, deals. It's what I'm good at.
I step into my office and close the door behind me. The space is exactly as I left it this morning—mahogany desk, leather chair, walls lined with bookshelves and framed articles about successful acquisitions. My view looks north toward Central Park, the city sprawling out beneath me.
I set my laptop on the desk and sink into my chair. My desktop comes to life with a tap of the keyboard. Emails flood the screen—seventy-three unread since this morning's meeting started.
I've been burying myself in work since I got back from Chicago. Meetings, emails, conference calls. Anything to keep my mind occupied.
It works. Mostly.
Except in the quiet moments. Like now, when I'm alone in my office and there's nothing to distract me from the memory of her.
Scarlett.
I think about that night more than I should. The way she looked on the terrace. The way she felt in my arms. The certainty that I'll probably never see her again. I shake the thought away and focus on my emails.
I haven't tried to call Miles since the wedding.
For obvious reasons, of course. What he did to Scarlett is unforgivable—that hasn't changed.
There's nothing to say that would make any of it better.
And after what happened between Scarlett and me that night.
.. what could I possibly say to him? The conversation would be impossible.
So I've stayed silent. I have no interest in hearing whatever excuse he's eventually concocted for abandoning her, and he doesn't get to know what happened after he left.
My mother called two days ago. Miles sent her a message—something vague about needing time, working through things. She was upset, wanted me to reach out to him.
I told her no.
Whatever Miles is dealing with, he created it himself. I'm not cleaning up his mess.
A knock at my door pulls me from my thoughts.
"Come in."
Emma steps inside, tablet in hand. She's been my assistant for five years—efficient, organized, completely unflappable.
"Your meeting tonight is confirmed," she says.
"Seven PM at the lounge downtown. Two executives from the Barrett acquisition. Your driver will be here at six thirty."
"Thank you." I glance at the files on my desk.
"Anything else?"
"These need your signature." She sets a stack of documents on my desk.
"Legal reviewed the non-compete clauses. Everything's in order."
I flip through the pages, scanning the relevant sections, and sign where indicated. Emma collects them and heads for the door.
"Have a good evening, Mr. Blackwell."
"You too, Emma."
The door closes, and I'm alone again.
I work steadily for the next few hours. Emails, contract reviews, a conference call with our CFO about Q4 projections. The afternoon bleeds into early evening before I realize how much time has passed.
I check my watch. Six fifteen.
I send off a few final emails, then stand and retrieve my suit jacket from the closet in the corner of my office.
The mirror inside the closet door reflects back a man who looks exactly like he should—tailored charcoal suit, crisp white shirt, dark tie perfectly knotted.
I adjust the tie, run a hand through my hair, and grab my phone and wallet.
The elevator takes me down to the lobby. My driver is waiting at the curb, the car idling.
"Good evening, Mr. Blackwell."
"Evening, Thomas."
The drive downtown takes twenty minutes in traffic. I answer a few more emails on my phone, half paying attention to the city sliding past the window. We pull up in front of the lounge at six fifty-five. I step out, straightening my jacket.
The lounge is upscale and trendy, the kind of place that's perpetually crowded with Manhattan's young professionals and executives. Music pulses from inside, not quite loud enough to drown out conversation but enough to create energy.
I step through the entrance and scan the space. It takes a moment to spot them—Greg Barrett and Linda Huang, executives from a digital media company we're in talks to acquire. They're seated at a table in a quieter section toward the back, away from the bar and dance floor.
Greg stands when he sees me approaching.
"Dax. Good to see you."
We shake hands. Linda rises as well, her smile professional.
"Thank you for meeting," I say, settling into the chair across from them.
"I know your schedules are tight."
"Always," Greg agrees.
"But this deal is worth making time for."
A server appears, and I order a whiskey neat. Greg and Linda already have drinks—something clear with lime for her, bourbon for him.
"So," Linda begins once the server leaves.
"Let's talk integration strategy."
The conversation flows easily enough. Greg and Linda are smart, experienced executives who understand the value of what we're offering. We discuss timelines, staffing, revenue projections. The kind of details that normally hold my complete attention.
Tonight, though, my mind keeps wandering.
I nod at the right moments. Respond to their questions with the information they need. Take measured sips of my whiskey.
But I'm not fully here.
Greg is talking about their content distribution model. Linda is asking about our plans for their podcast division. I answer, my responses automatic, drawing on years of doing exactly this kind of negotiation.
My attention drifts to the crowd. The lounge is packed now, bodies moving to the music, voices rising and falling in waves of laughter and conversation.
I take another drink and force myself to focus.
"The key," I'm saying, "is maintaining your brand identity while leveraging our infrastructure. Your audience trusts you. We don't want to lose that."
Linda nods, satisfied. "That's what we wanted to hear."
The conversation continues, but something pulls at the edge of my awareness. A feeling I can't name. I glance across the lounge, scanning the crowd without really knowing why.
And I freeze.
It can't be.
There, standing at the bar with two other women, is Scarlett. My brain short-circuits. For a moment, I'm convinced I'm hallucinating. That I've thought about her so much over the past few days that I'm now seeing her where she can't possibly be.
I blink. She's still there. Blonde hair falling in loose waves over her shoulders. Black dress that hugs every curve. Laughing at something one of her friends said.
Jane and Sarah. I recognize them from the rehearsal dinner. The three of them together, drinks in hand, completely unaware I'm watching. My chest tightens. My heart does something it never does—it stutters, stumbles, pounds harder than it should.
She looks incredible. That dress. The way it fits her. The way she moves. My mouth goes dry, and I feel my cock twitch against the fabric of my pants under the table.
What is she doing in New York?
"Dax?" Greg's voice pulls me back.
"You with us?"
"Yes." I clear my throat, dragging my attention back to the table.
"Sorry. Thought I saw someone I knew."
Linda glances over her shoulder toward the bar.
"New York. Happens all the time."
Greg continues talking—something about subscriber retention rates—and I nod, forcing myself to engage.
But my eyes keep drifting back to Scarlett. She's drinking, smiling, trying to look like she's having fun. I can see it though, the way her smile doesn't quite reach her eyes. The way she's present but not fully there.
She hasn't seen me yet.
I watch her take a sip of her drink. Watch her lean in to hear what Sarah is saying over the music. Watch her laugh, the sound lost in the noise of the lounge but the expression clear on her face.
I shouldn't go over there. Should stay here with Greg and Linda, finish this meeting, let her have her night with her friends.
I can't look away.
Greg and Linda are still talking. I'm nodding, responding when needed, but I barely hear them. Every part of me is focused on her. On the impossibility of her being here. On the fact that I never thought I'd see her again.
The need to go to her becomes overwhelming. Undeniable. I wait for a pause in the conversation, then set down my glass and stand.
"Excuse me," I say.
"I need to take care of something. I'll be right back."
Greg and Linda exchange glances but nod.
"Take your time."
I straighten my suit jacket and start walking.
Across the lounge. Through the crowd. My heart is pounding—an unusual sensation for someone who prides himself on control.
People move out of my way as I weave through the space.
The bar gets closer. Scarlett gets closer.
I don't let myself think about what I'm doing. Don't analyze it. Just move.
She turns just as I'm a few feet away. Our eyes meet. Shock crosses her face. Her lips part. The drink in her hand freezes halfway to her mouth. The air between us crackles, even across the distance. Electric. Undeniable. I keep walking until I'm standing right in front of her.
"Scarlett."
Her friends turn. Jane and Sarah both register surprise, their eyes widening as they recognize me.
"Dax," Scarlett breathes, her voice barely audible over the music.
I force myself to look at Jane and Sarah first. Manners. Protocol. Even though every instinct is screaming at me to focus only on her.
"Jane. Sarah." I nod at them.
"What brings you to New York?"
Jane recovers first, a smile spreading across her face.
"Girls' trip. We needed to get Scarlett out of Chicago for a few days. Help her... you know. Enjoy herself."
Her meaning is clear. Help her recover from what Miles did.
"Good idea," I say, my eyes cutting back to Scarlett. She's staring at me like I'm a ghost. Like she can't quite believe I'm real.
I can't believe she's real either.
Sarah starts to say something else about their trip, but I cut her off as politely as I can.
"Can we talk?" My eyes lock on Scarlett.
"Somewhere quieter?"
Scarlett nods slowly, then turns to her friends. Jane and Sarah are staring at us with wide, buzzed eyes, clearly trying to process what's happening.
"I need to talk to him," Scarlett says.
"I'll be right back."
She picks up her glass and drains the rest of her drink in one shot—her third, I'm guessing, based on the flush in her cheeks and the slight glassiness in her eyes. She sets the empty glass on the bar with a decisive click.
I extend my hand toward the back of the lounge.
"This way."
She falls into step beside me. I can feel Jane and Sarah watching us as we walk away, their confusion and curiosity radiating across the space.
I guide Scarlett through the crowd to a quieter corner, away from the bar and the speakers. A semi-private alcove where the music is muted enough that we can actually hear each other.
We stop. Face each other. The space between us suddenly feels charged, heavy with everything unsaid.