Chapter 13
REID
The local news anchor on the flat-screen monitor delivered the update with a grim, practiced gravity, but I couldn’t hear a single word. I had muted the television twenty minutes ago.
I stood behind my desk, my hands planted flat against the polished wood, staring at the aerial helicopter footage broadcasting from the San Juan Islands.
A column of smoke was churning against the skyline.
It billowed up from the dense interior of the timberline, twisting as it fed on the dry vegetation.
The camera panned, capturing the bright line of open flames racing across a ridge.
I tore my eyes away from the screen and looked down at my laptop.
I didn’t need a news anchor to interpret the situation.
I had bypassed the media feeds entirely and tapped directly into the National Weather Service raw data sets.
Lines of telemetry reflected in my eyes.
I tracked the coastal wind vectors funneling down from Mt.
Baker. I monitored the barometric pressure and the sharp drop in relative humidity.
Numbers had always grounded me, but today, they painted a picture of absolute catastrophe.
A visceral memory slammed into my chest, unearthing instincts I hadn't used in over a decade.
Long before Mitchell Energy existed, before the bespoke suits and the boardroom negotiations, I had paid for my engineering degree by cutting line for a wildland fire crew in the Cascades.
I knew exactly what fire did when it met a slope, and I knew what happened when wind fed the beast.
Looking at the topographical map on my screen and the stiff eastern wind pushing relentlessly across the island, my brain automatically calculated the burn trajectory.
The flames weren't going to stay on the forest floor.
The wind was going to push the heat straight up into the canopy.
The fire was going to crown in the Douglas firs.
Once it reached the treetops, it would move with the speed of a freight train, jumping the meager dirt roads and racing straight toward the coastal bluffs.
Straight toward the lighthouse.
I pulled up the public registry for the island’s emergency infrastructure.
It was a municipal volunteer fire department.
They had a handful of dedicated residents equipped with a few water tenders and aging brush trucks.
They were engineered to handle small brush flare-ups or residential kitchen fires.
They were outmatched by a wind-driven canopy fire.
And Gwen was out there.
She was sitting at the edge of that bluff, completely alone, isolated by the very geography she had sought out for protection.
The realization hit my bloodstream like a shot of adrenaline.
For years, every decision I made had been filtered through a rigorous algorithm of corporate survival.
I weighed every risk. I consulted teams before making public statements.
I obsessed over how every move would impact the investors or jeopardize the expansion of the company.
Standing in my silent office, watching the smoke plume expand on the monitor, that entire mental architecture collapsed.
I didn't care how my sudden absence would look to the board of directors a mere week after closing the biggest deal of my career.
The stock price, the manufacturing logistics, the profit margins all instantly turned to static.
The empire I had traded my marriage to build meant absolutely nothing if my wife was caught in the blast radius of a wildfire.
I reached out and hit the intercom button on my console.
"Page the executive team," I told my assistant, my voice stripped of its usual measured cadence. "I want them in the main conference room. Right now."
Five minutes later, I pushed through the glass doors of the boardroom.
The space was designed to intimidate. It featured a long polished wood table, floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, and rows of leather chairs.
The men and women who ran the daily operations of Mitchell Energy were already gathering, clutching tablets and looking thoroughly confused by the sudden summons.
I didn't sit down. I walked directly to the head of the table and planted my hands on the leather back of the nearest chair. I looked at my Chief Operating Officer, then swept my eyes over the other gathered executives, before returning to lock eyes with my COO.
"I am stepping away from the office, effective immediately," I announced.
The words echoed in the large room. Several executives stopped midway through pulling out their chairs.
"I will be offline for at least the next week," I continued, holding the COO’s gaze. "You have full authorization to manage the Tacoma plant expansion in my absence. You know the parameters. Execute the rollout."
The room went dead silent. The shock was palpable. I was a CEO who notoriously refused to delegate major phases, a man who slept in his office to ensure every metric was met.
The COO recovered first, clearing his throat and stepping forward. "Reid, we are days away from finalizing the handoff. The fragility of this new acquisition requires you to be on the ground. The investors expect you to lead the press junket on Tuesday."
"Cancel the junket," I interrupted. I didn't raise my voice, but the finality in my tone made him flinch. "I am not going to Tacoma."
"Then where are you going?" my CFO asked, his brow furrowing in confusion.
I turned to the wall monitor and hit a button on the remote in my hand. The screen flared to life, mirroring the news broadcast from my office. The aerial footage of the island fire filled the boardroom.
"There is a wildfire moving across the island," I told the room, pointing at the screen. "The wind is pushing it toward the coast, and the municipal volunteer crews are getting flanked. They don't have the resources to hold the line."
The CFO stared at the screen, then looked back at me. "Reid, that's a tragedy, but I fail to see how a brush fire in the San Juans impacts our agenda."
"It impacts my wife," I said.
The words hung in the air. Most of the people in this room knew Gwen. They had eaten dinners she had cooked, smiled at her during galas, and watched me ignore her to discuss quarterly projections.
I didn't give them time to process the personal dynamic. I shifted immediately into command.
"We manufacture high-capacity industrial batteries," I said, pacing a slow, deliberate line at the head of the table.
"Because of our strict thermal runaway protocols, and the inherent chemical risks of our production lines, we own a private hazard fleet.
We possess some of the most advanced fire suppression rigs, high-volume water pumps, and thermal imaging drones in the Pacific Northwest."
I stopped and locked eyes with the VP of Logistics, Andrist.
"I want them deployed."
Andrist blinked, his brain scrambling to catch up with the directive.
He opened his mouth, closed it, and then shook his head.
"Deployed to the island? Reid, you are talking about moving millions of dollars in proprietary hardware.
The liability of sending corporate assets to a municipal fire zone is astronomical.
We aren't insured for civilian disaster relief.
If one of our rigs causes collateral damage, or if an employee is injured off-site?—"
"Charter a private barge out of Anacortes," I said, cutting him off completely. I was done negotiating with the machine I had built.
"Reid—"
"Charter the barge, Andrist,” I repeated, my voice dropping to a lethal, uncompromising register that left zero room for debate.
"Load the thermal drones. Load the firefighting rigs.
Load the heavy pumps and the drafting hoses.
I want our hazard teams on that island by midnight, coordinating directly with the local fire chief. "
Andrist swallowed hard, recognizing the exact moment his authority ended. He gave a stiff nod and reached for his tablet, his fingers flying across the screen to initiate the sequence.
I looked at the rest of the table. "If anyone has a problem with this allocation of resources, you can draft your resignation and leave it with my assistant. Otherwise, get to work."
I didn't wait for their consensus. I turned my back on the executives, walked out of the conference room, and strode down the corridor toward my office.
My pulse hammered a steady, driving rhythm against my throat. I walked past the analysts and the administrative staff, entirely ignoring the frantic buzzing of the hive I had cultivated. I stepped into my office, grabbed my car keys off the desk, and scooped up my wallet.
I wasn't just sending equipment. I was going myself.
I walked out to the private elevator and hit the button for the parking garage. As the steel doors slid shut and the car began its rapid descent, the adrenaline finally leveled out, leaving me alone with the crushing weight of my own failures.
I had spent my recent marriage delegating my time.
I had outsourced my presence. I had relied on expensive jewelry and orchestrated apologies to bridge the emotional chasms I had created.
I had stayed safely behind a desk, managing spreadsheets and supply chains, while my relationship slowly fell apart.
When Gwen was hurting, I hadn’t been there.
I had treated her heartbreak like a task to be assigned.
And then I let in the conniving wanna-be socialite to further the damage.
I knew perfectly well that showing up on that island wouldn't earn me immediate forgiveness.
I wasn't delusional. Bringing a fleet of fire trucks to her doorstep wasn't going to erase the memory of Victoria Albright walking into her home.
It wasn't going to fix the damage I had caused or mend the trust I had so carelessly shattered.
She had looked me in the eye and demanded a divorce. She was done with me.
But I wasn't done with her.