Chapter Twenty-Three
LEONI
“Local businessman Nico Baxter was laid to rest this morning in a private ceremony attended by family, friends, and several prominent figures from the city.”
I pause, my mug of coffee hovering halfway to my lips as I turn toward the television.
The screen shows a line of black cars outside a stone church. Dark figures cluster beneath oversized umbrellas, faces blurred by rain. Respectable. Controlled. Mourning, the way powerful people do it—quietly, neatly.
“Mr Baxter, described by colleagues as a shrewd businessman and devoted family man—”
I switch the television off. The silence that follows is deafening.
Nico Baxter isn’t a businessman. He isn’t devoted. And family was never something he cherished; it was something he owned.
My hands shake as I set the mug down. I tell myself it’s just the heat. Just caffeine on an empty stomach. Not the fact that a week ago, the world I thought I understood collapsed in on itself. Not the fact that Warren Baxter hasn’t contacted me once.
And it’s not like I want him to.
I don’t.
But I have questions. Too many. They circle my thoughts at night, sharp and relentless, keeping sleep just out of reach. Everything feels unfinished, like a sentence that stops halfway through and leaves you waiting for a meaning that never comes.
I move to the window, staring out at a street that looks exactly the same as it did before all of this. Before I knew how deep the rot went. Before I realised how close I’d been standing to it.
Part of me wants to scream at how unfair it all is.
But I can’t share it. Not with Court. Not with Mum or Jordan. Because then they’d have to carry the weight of it too. And the one person who might actually know the truth, my father, is the one person I can’t face.
I still remember the way he looked me in the eye and lied when I asked if he was the reason Isaac was dead.
The door bangs open, and I jump so hard my heart slams against my ribs.
“Christ,” Courtney groans, dumping her bag by the door and kicking off her shoes. “They’ve been pinching my feet all day.”
She collapses onto the couch, dragging one foot up to inspect it, muttering under her breath. Eventually, she drops it and looks at me.
“So,” she says lightly, flashing a smile. “How’s heartbreak hell going?”
I swallow.
I told her Warren and I split. Framed it like a mutual decision. Clean. Simple. A lie that was easier for both of us.
“I’m feeling better today,” I say.
Her eyes narrow. “You look like shit still.”
I huff out a breath. “Well thanks, Court. I can always count on you to be honest.”
“Always.” She tilts her head. “Did you find a job?”
I groan, sinking down beside her. “I didn’t even look.”
Her mouth twists. “At this rate, you’ll be moving back in with your mum.”
“No.” The word comes out sharp, like saying it might somehow stop the inevitable.
She turns fully toward me. “Then why don’t you just go back there?”
I frown. “Back where?”
“The Baxter’s.” She shrugs. “He can’t stop you. And technically, he’s broken about twelve employment laws in this mess. That’s on him.”
“I can’t go back there,” I say quickly. “Firstly, who does that? And secondly—” My throat tightens. “I can’t face him.”
Courtney’s expression softens, but her voice stays practical. “You need money, Lee. Rent doesn’t care about heartbreak.” She pauses. “You’re out of time.”
I wake the next morning with a strange sense of clarity.
Courtney is right. I look like shit. I need a job, and I’m out of time. And getting answers from Warren won’t bring Isaac back.
So I shower properly, the kind where you scrub until your skin tingles and your thoughts get clearer. I take my time with my makeup, curl my hair, choose a skirt and blouse that make me feel put together rather than hidden. Then opt for low heels.
By the time I reach Baxter Corporation, my nerves are twisting up my insides, but my spine is straight, and my head held high.
I clutch my bag and step inside, relaxing slightly when Talia looks up and breaks into a wide smile.
“Oh my God,” she says, standing immediately and pulling me into a hug. “What’s going on? No one’s said if you’ve left. I tried asking Mr Baxter, but he’s been a right moody arse this last week.”
I smile faintly. “His dad has just died.”
She winces, sliding back behind the desk. “Right. Yeah. Point taken.”
“And I have left,” I add. “That’s why I’m here.”
“Oh.” She tilts her head. “He’s not in, if you’re looking for him.”
Relief rushes through me so hard I have to exhale slowly. “Perfect. I just need to drop my things off.”
I pull my laptop from my bag and set it on the desk, then fish out the car keys and place them neatly on top. It feels final.
Then I distract myself by taking out my CV.
“And can I ask a huge favour?” I add, smiling sweetly. “I need fifty copies. I’m job hunting.”
She laughs, already reaching for it. “Yeah, of course. Give me a minute.”
As she disappears into the back office, I tap my fingers against the marble desk. It feels like a weight lifting already, and I’ve only handed in my things.
The door behind me opens.
I glance over my shoulder and see Warren stepping inside, his jacket perfect, his expression unreadable. I whip my head back around, willing him to pass through reception like he always does.
“Mr Baxter,” Talia calls, poking her head out, and I shake my head frantically at her, eyes wide. My stomach drops when I feel his presence behind me. I smell him before he speaks. Woody. Bergamot. Familiar enough to hurt.
“Morning, Tracey,” he says easily. “Any calls?”
I close my eyes briefly. Talia’s been here for years, and he still doesn’t know her name.
“No, nothing, Mr Baxter,” she replies.
“Perfect. Thanks, Tracey.”
He turns toward the elevators.
“Talia,” I say, loud enough to stop him. He pauses and turns back. “Her name is Talia.”
She blushes, a small, embarrassed laugh escaping her. “It’s fine. Tracey’s fine.”
I look at her. “But it’s not your name.”
“Leoni,” Warren says softly, like he’s not quite sure I’m real.
Talia retreats into the office, closing the door as Warren steps closer.
“I’m just returning my laptop and the car,” I say quickly.
“They’re yours,” he replies. “Keep them.”
“I’d rather not.”
He studies my face. “Are you… okay?”
“Just peachy,” I mutter.
“Can we—” He hesitates. “Do you want to come upstairs? Or at least sit down and talk?”
“No.”
“Lee—”
“No.”
He looks genuinely lost.
Talia reappears and slides the copies across the desk. “Here you go.”
“Thank you, Talia,” I say pointedly, over-emphasising her name.
“About that,” Warren cuts in, turning to her. “I’m sorry. You should have said something.”
“It isn’t her job to correct you,” I snap, anger flaring sharp and sudden. “You’re her boss. The bare minimum is learning her name.”
Talia offers an awkward smile and disappears again.
The silence between Warren and me is heavy. And for the first time since I met him, I realise, I’m not the one feeling small.
He turns the pile of CVs toward him, scanning the top page briefly. “I can give you a reference,” he says. “Just put my direct line.”
I gather them up quickly, pressing the papers to my chest like armour. “Thanks.”
I turn on my heel and head for the door.
My hand is already on the handle when something inside me rebels. Maybe it’s exhaustion. Maybe it’s the part of me that refuses to walk away without saying the one thing that’s been tearing me apart.
I stop.
Slowly, I glance back.
He hasn’t moved. His eyes are locked on me. As though he already knows what’s coming and is bracing for the impact.
“If I hadn’t found out,” I ask quietly, my voice steadier than I feel, “how long would you have let me love you?”
The words sit between us, heavy and unforgiving.
His breath catches. I see it. Just for a second.
Long enough to tell me everything I need to know.
My throat tightens, humiliation burning hot under my skin.
Asking the question feels like stripping myself bare in front of him, as though admitting I still cared enough to need the answer.
I nod once, accepting his silence as an answer. “That’s what I thought,” I murmur.
I pull the door open and step out before he can speak.
WARREN
The door closes. Just a soft click, but louder than anything else that’s happened today.
I don’t move. Her question hangs in the air, unanswered and unforgiving.
If I hadn’t found out, how long would you have let me love you?
My throat tightens until breathing hurts.
Too long. That’s the truth I didn’t say.
I would’ve let her love me until it was convenient to tell her the rest. Until I’d dismantled enough of my father’s mess to pretend it was safe.
Until I’d convinced myself I could rewrite the rules.I would’ve let her build a life on a lie, because I believed I could control the fallout.
I drag a hand down my face, the weight of it crushing. Christ.
She didn’t ask if I loved her. She already knew the answer to that. She asked how long I would’ve taken from her without giving her the truth.
“For as long as you’d let me,” I murmur to the empty space.
I go up to my office and close the door behind me.
“Anthony,” I say into the phone, my voice stripped of emotion. “I want eyes back on Leoni. Discreet. No contact. No interference. She’s job hunting, I want a list of all the places she visits.”
“Done.”
“And the bank details?”
“Sent this morning.”
I disconnect and open my laptop.
The figures stare back at me in neat, unforgiving rows. Her mother’s accounts. Credit cards pushed past their limits. Interest compounding. Old legal fees stacked on top of grief. Years of quiet drowning.
This was what Isaac had been trying to fix. He wasn’t greedy or over-ambitious. He cared about his family. No wonder my father and I didn’t understand.
I don’t hesitate. One by one, I clear the debts. I wipe out the balances. Close the accounts. Pay off the mortgage in full. Then, quietly, I transfer enough to make sure her mother will never have to choose between heating and eating again.
It won’t bring Isaac back. But it removes the weight that dragged him under in the first place.
And for the first time since Leoni walked out of the office, I feel something settle in my chest. Because for once, I’m not taking. I’m giving back, and it feels… better.
The sun is starting to set, and I realise it’s been an entire day again. I haven’t eaten; I haven’t even had a coffee. Which reminds me, I need to hire an assistant.
Anthony knocks and enters, dropping a file onto my desk without a word.
“List of places Leoni visited today,” he says finally. “CV drops.”
I slide the file toward me and open it. The names jump out immediately; small firms, mid-level consultancies, a couple of places I know well enough to have influence over. Places that value loyalty. Places that won’t eat her alive.
I pick up the phone.
Anthony doesn’t say anything. He just watches.
“Richard,” I say when the line connects. “Warren Baxter.”
There’s the usual rush of politeness on the other end. I cut through it. “You’ve had a CV dropped off today. Leoni Dove.”
He pauses, shuffling some papers. “Erm, yes, I have it here on my desk.”
“If you don’t interview her, you’re an idiot. If you don’t hire her, you’re a bigger one.”
Anthony’s mouth twitches.
“She’s intelligent, meticulous, and loyal to a fault,” I go on. “She will make your life easier, not harder.”
“I see you’re down as her reference. Why did she leave?”
“She decided to move on, much to my regret.”
I hang up without waiting for a response.
I move down the list. Another call. Then another. Each time, the same message, a different phrasing, but the same truth.
“You’d be a fool to pass her over.”“She’s better than half your staff already.”“Hire her, and you’ll thank me in six months.”
When I finally set the phone down, my throat feels tight. Anthony arches a brow.
“You realise,” he says mildly, “that she was a liability, office work was not her forte."
I glance at him. “I know,” I reply.
He studies me for a second longer. “So why help?”
I lean back in the chair, staring at the ceiling. “Because I owe her,” I say quietly. “And because this way—” I exhale slowly. “—she doesn’t have to come back to work for me to survive.”
Anthony nods once. Respect. Understanding. I close the file and slide it into a drawer.