Chapter 16
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
brOOKS
The boardroom smells of floor wax and stale coffee.
It is a scent I usually thrive on. For ten years, I have walked into rooms like this, glass-walled aquariums suspended in the sky, and breathed in the anxiety of my opponents like oxygen. I am Brooks Taylor. I am the one who calculates risk to the fourth decimal point and never blinks.
Today, however, I'm tired.
I’m standing at the head of the mahogany table. Behind me, the projection screen displays the final quarterly projections for the Holloway acquisition. The numbers are perfect. The growth curve is aggressive but sustainable. The risk assessment is watertight.
I have spent six months building this deal. I have spent the last eight weeks living a lie to protect it.
I look around the table.
The board is split down the middle. Half are old guard—men who played golf with my grandfather and think "synergy" is a dirty word. The rest are new blood—tech-focused, hungry, waiting for me to slip. And at the far end sits my father, Preston Taylor, his face unreadable.
"The numbers speak for themselves," I say.
My voice is steady, devoid of the exhaustion vibrating in my bones.
"Holloway gives us the infrastructure to pivot into AI-driven logistics within eighteen months.
It secures our market share in Asia. It modernizes the existing portfolio without liquidating the core assets. "
I click the remote. The slide changes to the final integration timeline.
"The PR strategy has been deployed," I continue. "The market has stabilized following the... personnel changes regarding Mr. Aston. Consumer confidence is up twelve points since July."
I pause. I look them in the eye, one by one.
"This is the future of Taylor Enterprises. The vote is yours."
I sit down.
The room feels airless. A fly buzzing against the glass window sounds like a helicopter.
Usually, this is the part where my heart races. This is the adrenaline spike. The kill.
But today, my pulse is flat. I check my watch. 11:15 AM.
Ivy is probably at the cottage. Is she packing? Is she staring at the calendar, counting down the hours until she can escape me?
I miss the woman who argued with me about everything.
I close my eyes for a second, pushing the memory of her voice out of my head. I cannot think about Ivy right now. If I think about I her, about the way she looked at me when she rejected the burger, the hurt in her eyes, I will lose this room.
"Well," speaks up Gerald, the vice chairman. He clears his throat. "I must say, Brooks. This is... thorough."
"It's aggressive," counters Martha, one of the conservative members. "But the stability you've shown this summer... it's reassuring. The Aston situation was handled with remarkable discretion."
"Discretion," I repeat dryly. "Yes." We destroyed a man over soup, but sure. Let's call it discretion.
"And the rumors regarding your... volatility?" Martha asks, peering at me over her spectacles. "The concussion?"
"My health is excellent," I say. "And my personal life is settled. My fiancée and I are looking forward to hosting you all at the Labor Day party on Monday to celebrate the closing."
My father speaks up.
"The boy has done the work," Preston says. His voice is quiet, but it carries the weight of God in this room. "He secured the financing. He ousted the leak. He steadied the ship. I move to approve the acquisition."
"Seconded," Gerald says immediately.
"All in favor?"
Twelve hands go up.
"Opposed?"
Silence.
"The motion carries," Preston says. He slams his hand on the table, a gavel without the wood. "Congratulations, gentlemen. And ladies. We are about to buy Holloway."
Applause breaks out. It's polite, restrained applause, rich people don't cheer, but it's genuine. Men stand up to shake my hand. Martha pats me on the shoulder.
"Well done, Brooks."
"Incredible work."
"The stock is going to jump ten points by closing bell."
I shake the hands, smile the smile, and say the right words.
Thank you. It was a team effort. The future is bright.
But inside, there is... nothing.
It is a vacuum. A void.
I have spent my entire adult life chasing this moment. I have sacrificed sleep, friendships, and my own sanity to prove that I am not just Preston Taylor's son, but a titan in my own right. I closed the acquisition of the decade. The ROI is infinite. The future is locked in.
And all I can think about is that my personal balance sheet is currently in the red by one takeout bag and a woman who hates me.
"Brooks."
I turn. The room has cleared out, leaving only my father.
He walks over to me. He looks older under the fluorescent lights, but his eyes are sharp. He looks at me with something that might be pride.
"You did good," he says.
"Thanks, Dad."
"I was worried," he admits. "A few months ago... you seemed unpredictable. The deal was stalling, and the board was circling. I thought you were cracking. I thought the pressure had finally broken you."
"I didn't crack," I say stiffly.
"No," he agrees. "You didn't. You found an anchor."
He walks over to the window, looking out at the city.
"That girl," he says. "Ivy. She's impressive. I watched her at the gala. I watched her at the polo match. She manages a room better than half the executives on my payroll."
"She's a professional," I say, the defense automatic.
"She's a partner," he corrects. He turns back to me. "You know, your mother was skeptical. She thought she was a gold digger. But I told her a woman who works that hard isn't looking for a handout. She's looking for a challenge."
He claps a hand on my shoulder.
"You need someone like that, Brooks. Someone who isn't afraid of you. Someone who keeps you honest. You're a better man when she's around."
The words hit hard.
You're a better man when she's around.
He's right.
With Ivy, I'm not just a calculator. I'm not just a suit. I'm the guy who eats burgers on car hoods. I'm the guy who laughs in the rain. I'm the guy who defends his partner against the Penelopes of the world.
And I pushed her away. I told her it was biology. I told her to focus on the contract.
"I have to go," I say abruptly.
"Go?" he asks. "We have a celebratory lunch at Per Se. The partners are waiting."
"You go," I say, grabbing my briefcase. "Tell them I have a... personal matter."
"Brooks, you can't just—"
"I just made this company a billion dollars, Dad," I say, heading for the door. "I think I earned a lunch break."
I walk out of the boardroom, leaving my father staring after me.
I don't go to Per Se. I go to my office.
I call my personal lawyer, frantic.
"The waiver," I bark into the phone as I pace the length of the room. "Bring me the file."
"The escrow file?" Arthur asks, sounding confused. "Sir, the agreement stipulates that the waiver remains in custody until the completion of the eight-week term. We can't release it to Ms. Sullivan yet."
"I'm releasing it," I say. "Today."
"But the term isn't up. If you release it now, you lose your leverage. She could walk away and you'd have no recourse for the damages to—"
"I don't care about the leverage, Arthur. Bring me the waiver. And I need a check."
"The charity donation?" Arthur asks, shifting gears. "The fifty thousand?"
"No," I say. "Scrap that. I need a new check."
"Okay..." Arthur says slowly. "Who is the payee?"
"Ever After, Inc."
"The plaintiff?" Arthur creates a choked sound. "Sir, if you pay her company directly, it's not a donation. It's income. It changes the entire nature of the settlement."
"I don't care. Make it out to Ever After, Inc."
"Fine. For fifty thousand?"
"Five hundred thousand."
The silence on the other end is absolute. "Sir? That's... half a million dollars."
"I know how math works. Make it five hundred thousand. And bring the waiver to my office. Now."
"Sir, are you hiring them? Are you settling? The tax implications—"
"I'm setting her free," I say roughly. "Just do it."
I hang up.
I collapse into my chair, spinning it to face the window. The city sprawls out below me, a grid of concrete and ambition. It looks small from up here.
I pull my phone out. I open the security app.
I check the cottage camera.
It's empty. Ivy isn't there.
I switch to the exterior cam. She's by the pool. She's wearing a swimsuit and a hat, reading a book. She looks peaceful.
But then she lowers the book. She stares at the water. She wipes her cheek with the back of her hand.
Is she crying?
I zoom in. The resolution is grainy, but the posture is unmistakable. It's the slump of defeat.
I hurt her. I hurt the only person who actually saw me.
Arthur arrives twenty minutes later, breathless, holding a manila envelope.
"The escrow file, sir. And the check."
I take the envelope. I rip it open.
There it is. The Waiver of Liability, signed by me weeks ago, waiting for this moment. And the check: Ever After, Inc. - $500,000.00.
This is it. The way out.
I stare at the papers.
If I give her this, she's free. She can take the money, expand her company, secure her future, and never speak to me again. That was the deal, or at least, the new deal I'm forcing on her.
But if I don't give it to her... if I try to convince her to stay without it... am I just trapping her again?
You can't fix people, Brooks. You manage them.
That's what she said to me in the kitchen. She thinks I'm managing her. She thinks she's just another problem I'm solving until the deadline passes.
I have to prove her wrong.
I have to prove that I'm not choosing the outcome they expect. I'm choosing her.
I shove the papers back into the envelope. I grab my keys.
"Cancel my afternoon," I tell my assistant on the way out. "Cancel Monday morning. Cancel everything until further notice."
"But sir, the Labor Day party—"
"I'll be there," I say. "But I'm going home early."
The drive to the Hamptons usually takes two and a half hours. Tonight, getting out of the city feels like a lifetime.
My mind is racing, rehearsing speeches.
Ivy, I was scared. Ivy, I didn't know how to choose you without burning everything else down.
It sounds desperate even in my own head. Like Casablanca’s Rick Blaine at the airport, saying the thing he should have said sooner.
Except I'm not sending her away.
I'm asking her to get on the plane with me.
Enough thinking. I need to get there.
I pull through the gates of Eastmoor at 4:00 PM. The estate is buzzing with activity. Caterers are setting up tents for Monday's party. Florists are carrying crates of white hydrangeas.
It's the Victory Lap. The stage is set for the "Happy Couple" to take their bow.
I park the car and jog toward the guest cottage.
The gravel crunches under my feet. My heart is pounding harder than it did in the boardroom.
I reach the cottage door and fling it open
"Ivy?" I call out, stepping inside.
The cottage is silent. The air is cool. It smells of lemon polish and cleaning products, not her.
The kitchenette is empty.
The bed is made. Perfectly made. Not a wrinkle in the duvet.
I frown. Did she leave? Did she run?
The living space is empty. Her suitcase sits open on the sofa, nearly full, neat stacks of denim and silk folded into tight, efficient squares.
The closet looks like a gaping mouth. Only two hangers remain. One holds the cream dress she's supposed to wear to the Labor Day party. The other holds a pair of jeans and a blouse. Everything else is in the bag.
My stomach drops.
She isn't just tidy. She's staging an extraction. She has calculated exactly what she needs to survive the next forty-eight hours and packed away every other trace of herself.
A note sits on top of a stack of sweaters.
Brooks, I'm at the main house helping your mother with the seating chart for Monday. I'll be back later.
- Ivy
The words blur. Then refocus. The almost-empty closet stares back at me.
She's counting down the minutes. One foot already out the door.
The note crumples in my fist.
Not like this. She can't leave like this.
The manila envelope in my other hand suddenly feels heavier. The check. The waiver.
A plan forms.
Tonight. Give her the waiver tonight, well before the party or the deadline. Show her she's not a hostage anymore. Hand over the money and the release, and then—when she's legally free to walk away—ask her to stay.
Enough thinking.
The envelope lands on the table, dead center, impossible to miss.
Suit jacket off. Jeans and a T-shirt on. Wine bottle from the rack.
The patio chair scrapes against stone as I sit.
The sun begins to set, painting the sky in colors that remind me of the night on the yacht.
I drain the glass. Pour another. The gravel drive stays empty.
I wait.