Chapter 1
THE KEY MOMENT
NOLAN
I’ve got five unread texts, a blinking GroupThink notification, and an account manager hovering by my door pretending not to wait for me.
Welcome to Tuesday.
I snatch my phone off my desk and text Rishi.
If you say “synergize” at the Vanguard pitch, I’ll walk into traffic.
Can I at least leverage that walk into a brand opportunity?
I don’t respond. Instead, I push away from my desk with a quiet chuckle, adjust my tie, and head out of my office. I nod at the account manager on the way out. Timothy is his name. Or Todd. Something with a T. He trails behind, trying to keep up with my long strides.
Before I pass through the glass doors of the conference room, my phone buzzes with a message from Chloe.
Probably won’t be home until late. Meetings are running past dinner then I’m grabbing a drink w/ a friend. Call you after. <3
I stare at the message a beat longer than necessary. The <3 feels… off. Not wrong. Just—obligatory.
I’m being paranoid. Chloe’s been under pressure. She’s buried in pre-trial motions and caffeine. Her latest case has been her Everest.
Still, she's been “grabbing drinks with friends” more and more lately, ducking out, showing up late, leaving barely any time for us. A slow drift I’ve been ignoring.
No worries, babe. Talk then.
I pocket the phone and head into the meeting. Inside, the air is tense. Not unusual, but different somehow.
Thatcher, my CEO, is seated, fingers steepled under his chin, watching his nephew present.
Nepotism in action.
Jackson’s voice is puffed up with small dick energy, and he sounds like a man who’s never satisfied anyone but himself. I’ve seen PowerPoints with more charisma and less entitlement.
He’s going on about trimming overhead as though he invented the concept of spreadsheets.
It’s no surprise the way Jackson speaks makes my skin crawl. It’s the way he says “operational efficiency” like he plucked it off a word-of-the-day calendar and decided to make it his personality.
Or maybe I’m just bitter over the fact that he’s a Wall Street reject with a finance degree he’s never used, currently living in his parents’ Upper East Side brownstone, playing corporate dress-up in the job his uncle handed him–neatly gift-wrapped and unearned–like a participation trophy for showing up with the right last name.
Meanwhile, I—and most of the people who make Big Stream the best—have bled for the wins he takes credit for. Blood, sweat, and too many weekends sacrificed to pitch decks and impossible deadlines… all while he waltzes in with his pre-approved business buzzwords and thinks that counts as leadership.
“We’ve been offering strategic flexibility…”
Right.
As I was saying—pre-approved buzzwords.
“Clients want quick wins. We meet them where they are—on timeline, on expectations, even budget. Sometimes under. That kind of responsiveness drives growth.” Jackson taps the screen like he’s delivered a masterstroke.
I almost applaud. Look at him, quoting case studies like scripture. Reading and pretending to lead? Banner day for Jackson.
But I know what he’s doing.
Strategic flexibility sounds noble. Adaptive. Makes us appear agile, not desperate. But what he’s offering isn’t strategy—it’s surrender in a tailored suit.
Jackson is selling short-term appeasement, undercutting pricing to secure the win, calling it value, and hoping no one notices what we’ve lost in the process.
That might work if we were some scrappy startup clawing for attention.
But we’re not.
We’re Big Stream.
We don’t bend. We don’t chase. And we sure as hell don’t devalue the brand in order to inflate the scoreboard.
Thatcher nods along, approvingly.
What the fuck? Is he actually listening to this dumbass?
It’s not enough for me to challenge, not here, not in front of a room full of analysts and other business professionals.
But it’s close.
Close enough to raise the hair on the back of my neck.
I can’t decide what unsettles me more, Jackson delivering “operational efficiency” in a deceptive package, or Thatcher letting it slide when he should be shutting this shit down.
Instead, he’s nodding. Nodding.
Mental note made. Check into that shit.
“Let’s flag this for follow-up.” I keep my tone neutral. “We need to make sure client expectations match long-term margin goals.”
After an excruciatingly painful hour goes by, the meeting concludes. I duck back into my office to breathe. And also pour myself two fingers.
Rishi walks in, juggling his phone and a protein bar in one hand, a folder in the other.
“Bagged another one, boss.” He tosses the folder onto my desk with a cocky grin. The Vanguard logo on the front says enough. “Locked them in by the second round, and the CEO shook my hand before I even wrapped the pitch.”
Satisfied, I nod. “Solid work, Rishi. Really solid.”
He shoves the bar into his mouth, and immediately regrets it. “God, these taste like stale almonds and ass.”
“You bought a box of them.”
“Mistakes were made.” He tosses the bar into the nearest trash bin.
“Who else was there?”
“The Laurel Group,” Rishi answers. “And their point was definitely a killer. Almost made us sweat.”
“That’s saying something.”
“Fucking gorgeous too,” he adds.
I glance up from the folder, arch a brow. “You gonna ask her out or just admire her LinkedIn profile in the dark?”
“I don’t dip into the competition.”
“That’s hilarious, considering you absolutely dip into the competition.”
He snorts. “What can I say? I like high stakes and poor judgment.”
I tap the file. Another win. Another payday. This is the life I built—the hours, the hustle, the never-stop grind. Control. Respect. Power.
Yet somehow, it still isn’t enough.
Rishi leans against the corner of my desk, eyeing me. “So. Chloe. Big night?”
I raise a brow. “Why do you sound like a dating show host?”
“Because you’ve been insufferably cryptic for three weeks and I deserve updates.”
A hint of amusement curls on my lips. “You’ll know tomorrow. Assuming she says yes.”
Rishi whistles. “Damn. You’re actually doing it.”
“Don’t make it a thing.”
“It is a thing, man. You put together a freaking video montage.”
“It’s not a montage—it’s a narrative arc.”
“Jesus.” He grins. “You proposal-pitched your girlfriend.”
“It’s not a proposal. It’s a key moment. A next-step thing.”
“A next-step key in a decorative velvet box, with your initials engraved in it, champagne, and that playlist you forced me to help make.”
“You’re remarkably judgmental for someone who once bought his girlfriend a commemorative brick at a science museum.”
“She was into physics! It was meaningful.” He stands.
“Hey, you leaving for the night?” I ask, gathering my things.
“Yeah, I’ll walk with you.”
At the wall of elevators, I push the down button.
“You nervous?” Rishi asks.
I shrug, but my chest is tight. “A little.”
“She’d be crazy to say no. You’re the full package—smart, hot, tall, gainfully employed.”
“Don’t forget emotionally repressed and a tad smug.”
The elevator dings.
“Obviously. That’s your edge.”
The doors open and Jackson steps out.
Speaking of smug.
“Yo, Rhodes,” he calls, casually tucking his phone into his navy pinstripe suit jacket. “Ditching early?”
“Client happy hour,” I lie, stepping inside the elevator. Rishi follows. “Kenyon Group.” I push the button to the lobby. “You?”
“Meeting a friend.” His tone is smooth, his smile relaxed. There’s a weird beat of silence between us.
“Okay, well, have fun,” I say evenly.
“Definitely.”
The elevator closes.
Rishi slides his hands in his pockets. “That guy make your skin crawl, like he does mine?”
I don’t answer. But I smile, despite my gut churning. I tell myself it’s nerves.
Outside, I wait for my driver, Alan, to pull around while Rishi hails a cab. “Good luck tonight, man. I’m happy for you.”
I nod feebly. “Thanks, see you tomorrow.”
The city scurries around me, alive with a restless energy only New York can conjure. The sun’s starting to dip behind the buildings, bleeding gold over glass and steel.
And the air feels full of possibility.
The quaint little florist on Fifth smells like a bottled summer when I walk inside.
“Looking for anything specific?” the florist asks.
“I need timeless. Elegant. Understated, but still says everything.”
She smiles. “Got it.”
I pay for the flowers and head to the market. Garlic, lemons, asparagus, cream for the potatoes Chloe pretends to hate. Her favorite wine is already chilling in her fridge. I even stashed a couple of steaks from Muncan’s behind the wine for my domestic surprise attack.
And if anyone would clock a surprise down to the last detail, it’s Chloe.
She’s meticulous—Type A down to her marrow. The woman’s closet is color-coded, itemized, and tracked in a spreadsheet and she sets reminders to flip the mattress every six months.
Which isn’t me.
But somehow, for the past year, it’s worked.
Funny how fast I fell for such a brilliant, unshakable woman with perfect posture and napkins folded into military-grade triangles.
And I want all of it. All of her.
The idea to ask Chloe to move in with me sparked a few weeks ago. She was curled on my couch, half-asleep, some artsy film playing in the background.
And I knew…this is it.
The next step.
I want her here, in my space. I want it to be our space.
So, I did what I do best: made a sales pitch.
The “Key Moment” video is one part nostalgia, two parts future. It starts with glowing letters—Home, Where Our Story Begins.
Then it moves through snapshots of us—vacations, birthdays, stolen moments. Her laugh. My grin. Our rhythm.
The final frame is a video of me, holding up a key. “Will you move in with me, Chloe? No pressure, but you already have the best parking spot. What do you say?”
Cheesy? Absolutely. But that’s me.
It’s scheduled to ping her phone in exactly twenty minutes.
By the time I reach her building, my arms are full—flowers in one hand, groceries in the other.