19. Dean
DEAN
The operations boardroom echoes with the polite tension of thirteen over-caffeinated VPs clicking pens in unison. Somewhere down the table, Marcus is talking—something about last quarter’s coupon redemption graph—but the sound reaches me as if filtered through aquarium glass.
I’ve always said the coupons made us look cheap. I stand by it. But Marcus is convinced it’s a way to get more people in the door. So, we have a coupon program.
My notebook lies open to a blank page headed “To-Do,” and beneath it, rather than bullet points, an unbidden doodle of freckles across a button nose. Freckles equals Thalassa. Everything equals Thalassa lately.
Be a professional, Dean.
Projected EBITDA shortfall needs triage.
Yet my mind refuses to plot profit curves.
It keeps replaying her laugh the night we made a blanket fort to make her feel safe.
She pressed her palm flat to my chest, noting how fast my heart beat underneath it.
She sees wonder so fast, and I lag behind, still calibrating the room while she’s already harvesting starlight.
Banish the memory. Focus.
The memory doesn’t matter. She said no when she ghosted us.
Marcus’s pointer laser rakes slide twenty— Cost Containment Mandates .
I flip to the financial dashboard on my Surface.
The numbers are stark. He’s reforecasted the quarter as if a plague swept our restaurants.
That can’t be right. Preliminary reports showed only low-single-digit softness, mainly from the LA avocado shortage.
I tune in fully just as Marcus announces, “So discretionary budgets are frozen across Ops, Marketing, and Technology until further notice. We’ll reconvene next month to reassess.”
A hush. Fifty-two million dollars’ worth of marketing spend just vanished. Colin’s tech upgrades went with it. The room erupts—whisper arguments, chair squeaks, and someone drops a stylus.
Marcus closes his folio, rises with serene patriarchal finality. “If there are no objections—I have a compliance meeting downtown.” He checks his Patek. It gleams like a smug sunrise.
I open my mouth to object, but he’s already pivoted toward the door, cheap theater of urgency.
The double doors swallow him, and the fallout begins.
“Dean, that freeze invalidates our Instagram strategy straight through Chinese New Year!” Marketing VP Lena blurts, voice rising to an octave her vocal coach would hate.
COO Kendrick slams his palm on the table. “I have ice machines on life support. You want them to limp into Valentine’s Day?”
Colin’s empty chair across the table stings—he opted to finish another patch personally. I tack a mental sticky note to brief him before he reads the budget freeze email and wipes servers in revolt.
I stand, palms out. “Everyone breathe. This is preliminary.” My tone lands half-steady. The corner of my eye catches my own freckle doodle, and I shove the notebook shut.
We enter a triage session. I promise Lena a limited release budget and assure Kendrick I’ll prioritize safety assets.
I download grievance after grievance, layering them like Tetris pieces so none stick out.
People cool, but only slightly. This was a slap in the face, and I wasn’t here to stop it.
They exit in twos, still grumbling but no longer at mutiny level.
Last out is HR VP Montez. He lingers. “You okay, Dean? You seem…scattered.”
Scattered? Code for distracted, incompetent. Shame prickles. I stiff-smile. “Little turbulence, nothing more.”
He nods, sympathetic but unconvinced, and departs.
The room is empty, and silence roars. I flex my hands—a small stress tremor. Marcus has tightened screws deliberately. I think he’s waiting for me to crack. Not today. I will escalate to the board, but first I need something stronger than spreadsheets to hold me upright.
I need Tic’s measured counsel. I shove the laptop into my bag and stride into the corridor.
The hall smells of furniture wax and espresso. My footsteps echo on marble, then halt. Fifty feet ahead, mid-corridor between boardroom and elevators, stands a vision I’ve conjured nightly.
Thalassa Howard. Real, breathing, devouring me with equally shocked eyes.
Time collapses. Fluorescent lights halo her braid. Her freckles jump alive. She wears a pale-green sweater, soft jeans, black flats—casual student attire that somehow bends the corporate corridor into her domain. A bruising shadow colors her cheekbone, still healing. Thank God.
I step forward. Words jam. She mirrors movement, hesitates before setting her jaw and closing the distance. Ten feet. Five. I inhale the memory.
“Hi,” we say in tandem, breath skittering.
My rational self should ask about her health, doctor visits, and apologize for the Colorado panic. Instead, passion bypasses my good sense. I cup her face and I kiss her like this isn’t an office. Honeyed warmth floods my veins as she moans into my mouth.
A boardroom door stands beside us—the unused Finance Breakout room—unlocked.
I backstep, leading her inside. She follows willingly, and her eyes blaze.
The door clicks shut. In the artificial twilight of the projection screen, we collide again.
My hands remember her, every curve, every point, every angle.
A sliver of logic surfaces. The concussion? But she’s the one tugging me onto the table.
“Are you good?” I whisper in her ear.
“Need you,” she breathes. Consent squarely offered. My restraint shreds.
The long oak table spans twenty feet. I sweep papers to the floor, lift her in a gentle cradle, and perch her at the edge. She bites her lip, eyes wide, half fear, half hunger. I scan over her body. The bruises have faded. Pupils are equal. She tugs at me. Enough medical scan—she wants oblivion.
We kiss again, slow this time, exploring. Layers drift away from our bodies. Her sweater flies overhead, my jacket flung somewhere behind me. My hands stroke her sides, reverent around her belly, flat still but sacred ground.
She pauses, places her own hand atop mine. Her eyes search for rejection. She will find none. I need her too.
The temperature climbs with the loss of every article of clothing. My heartbeat hammers in my throat. Her nails rake my shoulder blades, anchoring in. She knows what I like.
I scoop beneath her hips, pulling her to me until we touch. Her pussy glistens in the low light as I thrust home. We connect in a slow rhythm, mindful of her bruises and the possibility inside her. Each slide feels like sealing cracks between us.
I want that. I need that.
Whatever connection we have, it’s more than chemical. There’s something about this girl that I can’t get enough of. Something that feels like fate.
Her pussy squeezes me as her body goes rigid. I dig my cock into that rough patch a few inches inside of her, and she shatters on me. Nails digging, body so wet I want to take a swim. I follow, holding the sound behind my teeth, my forehead against hers. For thirty seconds we breathe the same air.
The silence is broken only by HVAC hum. I stroke her hair, damp at the nape. She traces my short beard as if reacquainting herself. Emotion barrels through me, and I brace but let it hit.
I whisper, “You left an enormous hole, you know.”
Her eyes shine, watering. “I was drowning. Needed air.”
“I understand.”
She touches my lips, then braces her palms. “Dean, if I keep the pregnancy, I’ll need a lot of help. If I don’t, I’ll still need help, just a different kind. Will you still…” She can’t finish.
I place my finger gently on her mouth. Pain skewers, but my smile overrides. “Yes. Even if you don’t keep it, I’m here. We are here. Your choice remains yours.”
Tears slip, then a broken laugh. “You Copelands are ridiculous.”
“We’ve been called worse.” I kiss her tears dry.
We redress—awkward zippers, stolen kisses. Thankfully, we keep tissues in the conference rooms, so cleanup isn’t too bad. I gather the strewn papers—ironically, Marcus’s budget freeze spreadsheets. She helps, stacking, smoothing.
Before unlocking the door, I tell her, “I want your number. Tic has it, that’s how we’ve texted you, but I didn’t feel right taking it from him. I’d rather you gave it to me.”
She nods, types hers into my phone, and adds a koala emoji after her name. My pulse accelerates stupidly.
Marcus’s sabotage, board meltdowns—it all pales next to the promise behind this woman’s eyes. For the first time since she vanished, hope sparks to life.
“What made you come here, anyway?”
She smirks. “Well, you did, just a couple minutes ago.”
I laugh. I can’t help it. “You know what I mean.”
“I do.” She pauses, finger-combing her hair. “I wanted to see you. Talk, maybe. I don’t know. I just felt like I needed to see you. But now, I have to get to a doctor appointment.”
“Are you?—”
“I’m okay. Everything is okay. Just a follow-up.”
“Alright.” I lean in for a kiss, and she surrenders completely to it. “Talk later.”
She nods and leaves.
Returning to my office, I almost forget the morning mutiny. But Marcus’s freeze nonsense still looms, and board members ping my inbox with alarm.
I lean back, unable to care right now. Not when Thalassa is still on my lips, and fatherhood looms.
But all of that must wait. Step one is to protect the financial nest egg for whichever outcome Thalassa chooses. The world regained brightness the moment she entered that hallway.
I close the screen, whisper to the empty office, “Thalassa.” Then start drafting a contingency plan for maternal health coverage regardless of part-time or full-time employment status. Work never felt more relevant.