2. Duncan
DUNCAN
I skipped the gym and arrived at the office before sunrise, the city still wrapped in the gray silence that preceded the morning rush.
The elevator carried me to the fifteenth floor in mechanical silence, the numbers climbing steadily while I stared at my reflection in the polished steel doors.
Dark circles shadowed my eyes, evidence of another sleepless night spent pacing my apartment and questioning decisions I'd been avoiding for months.
The doors opened to reveal Nick Martinez waiting for the elevator, coffee in hand and his usual knowing expression firmly in place. As the chairman of my board, Nick had perfected the art of reading between the lines of my carefully neutral responses to his questions about retirement.
"You're here early," he said, stepping into the elevator as I stepped out.
"Couldn't sleep."
"Still thinking about the buyout?"
I pressed the button to hold the doors open, not ready to end this conversation yet.
Nick had been pushing the retirement angle for weeks, convinced that stepping away from Walsh Strategic was the right move for both me and the company.
The board had presented a generous offer—more than generous, considering the current market conditions.
"I'm thinking about a lot of things."
"The offer's solid, Duncan. Better than we expected, and you know the market won't stay this favorable forever."
"It's not about the money."
Nick studied my face with the intensity he usually reserved for contract negotiations. "Then what is it about?"
I let the elevator doors close and walked toward my office, Nick falling into step beside me.
The hallway stretched ahead of us, lined with awards and photographs documenting fifteen years of successful deals and strategic victories.
Achievements that had once felt meaningful now seemed distant, as if they belonged to someone else.
"I've been doing this for fifteen years," I said. "Building this company, chasing deals, proving myself over and over again. And for what? So I can do it for another fifteen years?"
"Success has a price. You've paid it, and now you get to enjoy the rewards."
"What rewards? An empty apartment and a calendar full of meetings with people who want something from me?"
Nick stopped walking and turned to face me. "This isn't about the company, is it? This is about Meranda."
The name hit me harder than I'd expected, even though I should have been prepared for it.
Meranda Hawkins had been my business partner for three years, the person I'd trusted to help build Walsh Strategic into what it became.
The partnership had worked seamlessly until it became something more—or at least, until I'd thought it had become something more.
The betrayal still cut deep. Not because she'd chosen ambition over whatever we'd had but because I'd allowed myself to believe that someone could see past the money and the power to find something worth staying for.
"Meranda was seven years ago."
"Was she? Because you've been different ever since. More isolated. More…" He searched for the right word. "Bitter."
I resumed walking toward my office, unwilling to continue this conversation in the hallway where anyone could overhear. Nick followed, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.
"I'm not bitter. I'm realistic."
"You're forty-two years old and you're talking about retirement. That's not realistic. That's running away."
I unlocked my office door and stepped inside, but I didn't invite Nick to follow. He lingered in the doorway, clearly wanting to say more.
"The buyout offer stands until Friday," he said finally. "After that, the board moves forward with or without your approval. Think about what you really want, Duncan. And think about whether hiding from life is going to get you there."
He left without waiting for a response, his words hanging in the air between us.
I closed the door and leaned against it, allowing myself a moment to absorb the silence of my office.
Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Boston Harbor, where early morning light painted the water silver.
Somewhere out there, people were starting their days with purpose and direction. I envied them.
The coffee maker in the corner chimed, programmed to start at half past six whether I was here or not. I poured myself a cup and settled behind my desk, where a manila folder waited with my name written across the tab in my assistant's careful handwriting.
My former assistant's handwriting. She'd quit three weeks ago, citing "creative differences" in her resignation letter.
The third assistant to leave in as many months, each one driven away by my increasingly short temper and demanding schedule.
I couldn't blame them. I'd become the kind of boss I would have hated working for.
I opened the folder and found briefing notes for a client pitch scheduled for next week.
The Harrington Group wanted to acquire a chain of boutique hotels in Vermont, and they'd hired Walsh Strategic to navigate the regulatory hurdles and financing complications.
It was exactly the kind of straightforward deal I'd built my reputation on, the kind I could handle in my sleep.
Which was probably why I'd been putting off reviewing the materials for two weeks.
I scanned the notes, making perfunctory edits to the strategy outline and flagging potential issues that my team had already identified.
The work felt mechanical, devoid of the intellectual challenge that had once energized me.
When had I stopped caring about whether the Harrington Group succeeded in their acquisition?
When had success become so routine that it no longer satisfied?
I tossed the folder aside and turned to my computer, where forty-seven new emails waited for my attention.
Most were internal communications—status updates from project managers, budget approvals from accounting, scheduling requests from various department heads.
The machinery of business grinding forward, requiring my input to keep functioning smoothly.
One email caught my attention—an expense report from James Morrison, one of our senior project managers. The numbers looked wrong—too neat, too convenient. I'd learned to trust my instincts about financial irregularities, and something about Morrison's report triggered my internal alarm system.
I printed the report and made a note to follow up with accounting. Corporate theft was rare but not unheard of, and I'd rather investigate a false alarm than ignore a real problem. The last thing Walsh Strategic needed was a financial scandal during acquisition talks.
My phone buzzed with a text message from my lawyer.
Board meeting moved to Thursday. Documents ready for review.
The buyout papers. The final step in a process that would transform me from CEO to wealthy retiree in the span of a signature. Nick was right about the market conditions—the offer was more than fair, probably more than I'd get if I waited another year.
But signing those papers felt final in a way that made my chest tighten with anxiety. Once I sold Walsh Strategic, I'd have money and freedom but no purpose. No reason to get up in the morning, no problems to solve, no team depending on my decisions.
No excuse to avoid confronting the emptiness that had been growing inside me for years.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the remaining emails.
Legal updates about the acquisition talks, which were progressing smoothly despite my reluctance to provide final approval.
Personnel issues that required my input but could have been handled by any competent manager.
Invitations to industry events that I'd attend out of obligation rather than interest.
The mundane details of a successful career that no longer felt fulfilling.
My phone rang at eight fifteen, and the caller ID showed the temp agency I'd been working with to find a replacement assistant. Three interviews scheduled for this week had all cancelled, leaving me to handle my own scheduling and correspondence.
"Walsh Strategic, Duncan speaking."
"Mr. Walsh, this is Sarah from Premier Staffing. I'm calling to confirm that you're still looking for administrative support."
"Yes. The sooner, the better."
"Excellent. I have someone who can start Monday morning. She's experienced, professional, and available for long-term placement if you're satisfied with her work."
"Send me her resume."
"Actually, I'm calling because we're running short on time to process the paperwork. She's already cleared our background checks and comes highly recommended. I can email you the placement confirmation if you'd like to review it before Monday."
I rubbed my temples, feeling the familiar tension that preceded most mornings these days. "Fine. Send whatever you need me to sign."
"Perfect. I'll have that to you within the hour. Her name is Ivy Whitmore, and she'll be there Monday at eight a.m. sharp."
The name stopped me cold.
I stared at the phone in my hand, certain I'd misheard. "I'm sorry, could you repeat that name?"
"Ivy Whitmore. W-H-I-T-M-O-R-E. Is there a problem?"
The room seemed to tilt around me. Three years. Three years since I'd heard that name, since I'd allowed myself to think about auburn hair and hazel eyes and the way she'd whispered my name in the darkness of my apartment.
Three years since she'd disappeared from my life without explanation or goodbye.
"Mr. Walsh? Are you still there?"
"Yes." My voice sounded steady despite the chaos in my head. "Yes, I'm here. Monday at eight. I'll watch for the email."
I hung up before she could ask any more questions, before I could change my mind and tell her to find someone else. Anyone else.
Ivy Whitmore.
I opened my laptop and navigated to the temp agency's website, searching for her profile or placement information.
Nothing. No photograph, no resume, no details beyond her name and start date.
For all I knew, it could be a different Ivy Whitmore—a stranger who happened to share a name with the woman who'd haunted my thoughts for three years.
But I knew it wasn't.
Deep in my gut, I knew it was her. The same woman who'd kissed me in the rain outside her father's charity gala. The same woman who'd spent one night in my bed and then vanished from my life as completely as if she'd never existed.
William Henry Whitmore's daughter.
The daughter I'd promised never to touch, never to pursue, never to see as anything other than his child. The promise I'd broken spectacularly and paid for every day since.
I stood and walked to the window, staring out at the harbor where morning traffic was beginning to build on the waterfront.
Somewhere in this city, Ivy was preparing to walk back into my life.
The question was whether she knew where she'd be working or if Monday morning would be as much of a shock to her as this phone call had been to me.
Either way, I had four days to prepare myself for seeing her again.
Four days to figure out how to face the woman I'd never stopped thinking about, despite every rational reason to forget her.
Four days to decide whether this was the universe's way of telling me that some chapters couldn't be closed until they were properly finished.