6. Jack
JACK
The phone buzzes just as I take a sip of coffee I’ve already reheated twice.
Vivian.
I don’t groan. I don’t sigh. I’ve learned how to take her calls without giving her the satisfaction of knowing she’s interrupted anything. She raised Gavin like a chess piece. I was the one she used to practice strategy on first.
I tap the screen and slide into my chair. “Vivian.”
“Jack. I assume you’ve heard about the leaked audio?”
“No pleasantries today?”
“Do you think this is the time for charm?”
I sip the coffee. It’s terrible. “I’ve heard about it.”
“Then you understand the problem.”
“I do.”
“I’m hearing whispers of a potential board request for audit. That doesn’t happen unless someone—someone very close to the top —has created a reputational vulnerability.”
“Gavin has it under control,” I say. “And our lawyer’s already issued takedowns. The relevant security guards were fired. It’ll blow over.”
“Do you know how many scandals start with someone saying it’ll blow over?”
I say nothing. I don’t need to. That line is rhetorical. Everything with Vivian is. “I’m prepared to freeze discretionary budgets if this escalates.”
I stiffen. “That is out of your purview, given your retired status.”
“Do you think retirement will stop me from doing whatever I want with VT?”
Time to shift tactics. Nothing good comes from telling her what she can or can’t do. “There’s no proof. No names. No faces. Just poor quality audio that we both know is fake. The firm is stable, the press is distracted, and unless you want to feed the fire, you’ll let us handle this internally.”
There’s a pause. That tightrope silence that always follows one of her power plays. “I don’t like secrets.”
“Then it’s a good thing this isn’t one.”
“If it becomes one—if I see one more whisper about your little elevator misstep—I will not hesitate to pull funding from gala sponsorships and client hospitality.”
“You’re assuming the leak is real?”
“Don’t kid a kidder, Jack.” She hangs up.
I set the phone down carefully.
It always amazes me how calmly she weaponizes power. Her voice never rises. Her claws never flash. She just slices through expectations with the same passive-aggressive finesse she used to use when she’d send back undercooked steak during client dinners and still get the chef’s card on the way out.
I’ve always respected her. But I’ve never liked the way she makes me feel like a borrowed suit. Like my title is at her discretion, even now.
Gavin gets the worst of it, but sometimes I wonder if I’m still stuck playing the same damn game I was at twenty-three. Polished, polite, and quietly swallowing the urge to breathe for myself.
Later, I walk past Parker’s desk on my way back from the conference room. It’s innocent, really. Just a glance.
Her coffee mug. Her cardigan draped over the back of the chair. The notebook with a dozen multicolored sticky tabs poking out from the edges.
And then there’s the photo.
Two kids—twins, obviously. Boy and girl. Six, maybe. Same brown hair. Same sweet, bright faces. They’re laughing. The kind of unselfconscious, mouth-open, full-belly joy you don’t see in adults anymore.
I stare longer than I mean to. Because God help me, they’re adorable. And because something in my chest twists at the sight of them.
I’ve always wanted a family. Quietly. Privately.
I’ve never said it out loud, never included it on any vision board or ten-year plan.
But I’ve felt it in the spaces between—watching friends fall in love, watching Gavin get dragged back into his father’s drama, watching other people make messes while I handled the cleanup.
Family is complicated, and I’ve wanted those complications for a long time. I’ve always wondered if I missed my window.
Parker walks up just as I’m staring. She doesn’t say anything at first. Doesn’t even seem annoyed.
I straighten, clear my throat. “Cute kids.”
She smiles a little, brushing her bangs away from her face. “Thanks.”
“They look like you.”
Her smile falters, but just slightly. “They take after their dad.”
I don’t say anything. Not because I don’t want to. But because I can see, plain as day, that she doesn’t want to talk about him. Whoever he is.
There’s a story there. I’m not sure if I want to know it. Phil does. According to him, she’s never been specific about who their father was, saying she drunkenly hooked up with a guy on her senior class trip. A nobody named Zack, or so she thinks.
I gesture toward the photo. “You’re lucky.”
She lifts a brow. “To be a single working mom with very little sleep and no private life?”
“To have them ,” I say simply.
Her expression softens. “Yeah,” she says. “I am.”
We stand there for a beat too long. Then I remember myself. My role. Vivian’s voice still echoing in my head like a warning bell.
“How’s the gala prep coming?”
She perks up. “Good, I think. I’ve got RSVPs coming in, venue walk-throughs scheduled, and catering narrowed down to three companies.”
“Follow me and fill me in on the details.” My office isn’t far. She follows me inside, her heels clicking softly against the polished floor. She moves with purpose—efficient, practiced—but not cold. Parker always walks like she has something to prove and something to protect.
It makes sense. She’s had to carry a lot.
She settles into the chair across from my desk and opens her laptop, pulling up a color-coded spreadsheet that would make any EA proud. “I didn’t touch Gavin’s budget,” she says quickly. She walks me through the rest. Catering tiers. Guest list. Lighting options.
It’s all good. Better than good. Clean. Strategic. But I’m not hearing all of it. Because I’m too busy noticing how close she is.
How her blouse gaps slightly when she leans forward. How her lip catches between her teeth when she concentrates. How her voice drops into this low, focused rhythm that hits something deep in my gut. How she’s in my head.
She’s doing nothing wrong. And I’m doing everything wrong. Because all I want to do is touch her.
“Jack?” she says.
I blink. “Sorry.”
“You okay?”
No. “Yes.”
She studies me for a second. “You sure? You look…tense.”
“Tense is my baseline.”
She laughs. It’s a soft sound. Unpolished. Real.
She sits back a little, folding her arms. “You’ve been kind of distant.”
I exhale. “It’s complicated.”
“Because of Phil?”
“Partly.”
“Because of Gavin or Harrison?”
I shake my head. “Because this—whatever this is—it’s not something I’m supposed to want.”
Her eyes flicker. “But you do.”
“Do you?”
She doesn’t answer. She just stands, walks around the desk, and leans against the edge—close enough that I can feel her body heat. I look up at her, breathing just a little harder now. Everything’s a little harder now.
She reaches out, lightly touches my jaw. “I shouldn’t want this either,” she says. She tips her face toward me, her lips wet and waiting. “We have unfinished business, don’t we? Friday, you never…”
That’s all it takes.
I rise from my chair slowly, deliberately, until we’re face-to-face—breath to breath. Her hand is still on my jaw, her eyes flicking down to my mouth like she’s daring herself to kiss me first.
But I don’t let her.
I reach out and cup the back of her neck, thumb brushing just behind her ear. She shudders beneath my touch as I kiss her. Harder than I mean to. Deeper than I should. And she opens for me like she’s been waiting since Friday.
She tastes like coffee and something sweet, like a flavored lip balm, and I make a sound low in my throat because this is what I’ve been craving. Not just her body, but this pull between us that makes me forget who I am, where I am, and what’s at stake.
She threads her fingers into my hair and presses closer. I slide my hands down her back, over her waist, anchoring her to me as I guide her toward the desk. When her thighs hit the edge, she breaks the kiss long enough to say, breathless, “Lock the door.”
I do it without a word. I turn back to her, and she’s already unbuttoning her blouse.
Fuck.
She doesn’t hesitate. Doesn’t play coy. Her fingers are sure, her expression hungry. She drops her blouse on the chair, her bra next. And I just stand there, staring, forgetting how to move. “You gonna look all day?” she teases, breathless.
I cross the room in two steps.
My mouth finds her neck, her shoulder, the soft swell of her chest. She arches into me, eyes closed, moaning quietly like she’s trying not to—but failing. Her hands are under my shirt now, nails dragging lightly over my stomach, and I think I might lose my mind.
Clothes hit the floor fast. Careless. Desperate. Her skirt is hiked up, her underwear pushed aside. I lift her onto the desk, and she gasps as the cool surface meets her skin.
“Jack,” she whispers. “Please.”
I don’t need to be asked twice. I slide into her, and everything disappears. She’s so goddamn warm. Tight. Perfect. The memory from seven years ago doesn’t do her justice.
Her legs wrap around my waist. Her hands grip my shoulders like she’s holding on for dear life.
I move slow at first, savoring every sound, every shiver, every little gasp.
And then she starts rocking her hips. Meeting my thrusts.
Biting her lip like she’s trying not to say something that’ll break us both.
“Tell me,” I say, voice low. “Say it.”
“You feel amazing.”
“Yeah?”
“So good, Jack—God.”
I pick up the pace, one hand splayed across her lower back to hold her steady.
She’s falling apart in my arms, and I’m right behind her.
My name leaves her lips over and over, a chant, a prayer, a fucking lifeline.
And then she tenses—hips bucking, breath hitching—and I know she’s there.
I follow seconds later, burying my face in her neck as I lose it.
Silence. Just our breathing. The soft hum of the office behind the walls.
She leans her forehead against mine, still trembling slightly. I feel her pull away—not physically, not yet, but emotionally. Her posture shifts. Her eyes lose their haze.
She whispers, “Shit.”
“Parker—”
“No, it’s—this was—” She slides off the desk, reaching for tissues to clean herself, and then her clothes. “We shouldn’t have done this.”
I pull my pants back on slowly. “You didn’t seem to think that five minutes ago.”
“I know. I just—I wasn’t thinking.”
“Neither was I.” I button my shirt, slower than I need to. “You okay?”
She laughs—sharp and nervous. “No. I mean, yes, I’m fine. Physically, I’m great. But emotionally? Not even a little.”
I frown. “Did I hurt you?”
“No! God, no. You were—” She cuts herself off. “That’s not the point.”
“Then what is?”
She hesitates, clutching her blouse to her chest like armor. “Phil.”
I stiffen. Of course.
“This can’t happen again,” she says quickly. “He’d kill me. He’d kill you .”
“I know.”
“Do you?” Her voice rises. “Because we’ve been here before.”
I pause. And there it is. Déjà vu. That ugly twist in my gut. The memory I’ve been avoiding all damn week. Seven years ago. One night. One mistake.
Phil is going to kill us.
I couldn’t stop thinking about it for weeks after . I couldn’t shake the memory of her regret, and now it’s back. “Parker,” I say carefully, “I’m not trying to hurt you.”
“I know that.”
“I’m not trying to make your life harder.”
“Well,” she mutters, wrangling her blouse into place, “too late.”
That stings. But I get it. To her, this probably looks like a pattern. Like I can’t help myself around her. Like I’m dragging her down.
The truth? She’s the only thing that’s made me feel real in years.
“Do you regret it?” I ask.
She looks at me, and there’s so much in her eyes—panic, guilt, longing—that I don’t know which answer she’s going to give. “Yes.”
And then she adds, “No.” A pause. “It’s complicated.”
“I can handle complicated. That’s what we do around here.”
“Maybe you can, but can I?” she says. “I’ve got two kids. A demanding job. A brother who would implode if he knew. And now I’ve had sex with all three of my bosses.”
“That’s not what this is.”
She snorts. “Isn’t it?”
“No,” I say, firmer. “It’s not.”
She falls quiet. We both do. Because that’s exactly what it is, on the surface. But there’s always been more in it for me, and saying that now won’t fix things.
She finishes buttoning her blouse, picks up her tablet from the floor, and takes a breath like she’s about to run a marathon. “We should pretend this never happened.”
That gut-punch again. I try to not visibly flinch. “You sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything,” she says. “But I know I can’t fall apart right now.”
“Who said anything about falling apart?”
“I’m trying to survive, Jack. I don’t have the luxury of being reckless like this again. For Phil’s sake, and for my kids’ sake.”
I want to argue. Want to tell her this wasn’t reckless—it was right . But I don’t. She wouldn’t hear it right now.
She walks to the door, unlocks it, and opens it a few inches. Then she stops. “I meant what I said,” she says without looking at me. “You were…amazing.”
And then she’s gone.
I don’t move. I just stand there, heart pounding, staring at the space she left behind. Déjà vu all over again.
The first time we were together, she ran. Not because it was wrong—but because she thought it was. She thought Phil would freak out. And now?
Now she’s got so much more on the line. And I’m not sure she’ll ever give herself permission to want me the way I want her.
But I do. God, I do.
And I don’t know how many more times I can watch her walk away from me.