Chapter 18 Daniel
Daniel
The board meeting drags on for three hours, but I stopped listening somewhere around hour two.
“Daniel.” The board president, Maxwell Silvan, leans back in his chair, fingers drumming the table. “Are you with us?”
“Yes.” I lie.
“Then answer the question. How exactly do you plan to restore our clients’ confidence when you’re currently the poster child for workplace impropriety?”
Before I can respond, Marvey Draycott, a short, balding man who thinks his money makes him important, cuts in.
“Oh, come on, Richard. Let’s call it what it is. The boy is thinking with his dick instead of his brain. The tale is as old as time!”
My jaw tightens. “Excuse me?”
“What? I’m just saying what everyone is thinking.” Marvey waves his hand dismissively. “You hired a pretty girl, started screwing her, and now it has all gone tits up. Pardon the expression.”
“Marvey, that’s inappropriate—” Patricia Strale starts, but he talks over her.
“Oh, please, Pat. You know what is inappropriate? Using company resources to wine and dine your girlfriend while our stock tanks. That’s inappropriate.”
“The relationship had no bearing on company operations,” I say through clenched teeth. “Bailey has been very useful. She presented at the investor meeting—”
“She made PowerPoint slides look pretty,” Marvey interrupts again. “My twelve-year-old nephew could have done that. What she couldn’t do was keep her legs closed long enough for you to close a deal.”
I’m on my feet before I realize it. “Watch your mouth.”
“Or what?” Marvey grins. “You’ll throw a tantrum? Shove me like you shoved that reporter? That is exactly the problem, Daniel. You’ve lost control.”
“Gentlemen, please.” Eleanor Hayes—the only board member who has ever been decent to me—raises her hands. “This isn’t productive. Daniel, dear, I think what they’re trying to say is that we’re concerned about the direction this is all heading.”
“Concerned is putting it mildly,” Patricia says. “The Whitmore deal fell through, and Larsson pulled out. Three other investors have requested emergency meetings. We’re hemorrhaging money because the captain is too busy playing house to steer the ship.”
“I’ve been steering this ship for fifteen years,” I say quietly. “But one scandal and suddenly I’m incompetent?”
“That girl saw you coming a mile away. Batting her eyelashes, playing the ingénue, making you feel like a big man. And you fell for it hook, line, and sinker.” Marvey leans back, folding his arms across his belly.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about—”
“We should get to the point, please.” Eleanor clears her throat gently. “Daniel, I know this is difficult. But perhaps taking a step back might give you space to sort out your personal—”
“You want me out.” It’s not a question.
Silence.
“Temporarily,” Patricia says carefully. “Just until the scandal dies down and we can restore confidence with investors.”
“Three days,” Marvey adds. “That is all we’re giving you. If things haven’t improved by Friday, we’ll have to make some difficult decisions.”
“Difficult for who?” I look around the table. “For you? Because it seems pretty easy from where I’m standing. First sign of trouble and you’re ready to throw me overboard.”
“That’s not fair—” Eleanor starts.
“Isn’t it? I built this company from nothing. From a tiny startup in my apartment to a billion-dollar enterprise. I made you all rich. And the second my personal life gets messy, you want my head.”
“Your personal life is affecting the bottom line,” Whitfield says coldly. “That makes it our business.”
“Your bottom line,” I correct. “God forbid Daniel Williams has a moment of human weakness. You can’t have that affecting your summer homes.”
“Now you’re just being petulant,” Marvey says. “Listen, kid. You’re good at what you do; no one is denying that. But right now, you’re a liability. Take the time off. Get your head straight. Maybe find a nice woman who isn’t on your payroll.”
“I’m not stepping down.”
“Daniel—” Patricia’s voice sharpens. “You need to think carefully—”
“I have thought carefully.” I lean forward, palms flat on the table. “And here is what I think. You need me more than I need you. Every contact is with me. Not the company. Me. You push me out, even temporarily, and half those relationships walk out the door with me.”
“Are you threatening us?” Whitfield’s eyes narrow.
“I’m stating facts. You want to play hardball?
Fine. But remember who holds the cards here.
” I straighten my tie. “I’ll fix the scandal, but I’m doing it my way, and if you don’t like that—” I look around the table, “—then by all means, vote me out. But be prepared for the consequences. Meeting adjourned.”
I walk out before anyone can respond.
The elevator ride down feels endless. Forty-four floors of silence and second-guessing.
Did I just commit career suicide? Probably.
Do I care? Right now, with Marvey’s annoying face stuck in my head, I can’t bring myself to care about anything except getting out of this building.
“Daniel!”
Lottie’s heels click rapidly behind me. I don’t stop.
“Daniel, wait—”
I keep walking, punching the elevator button harder than necessary.
“I can make this all go away only if you give me the go-ahead,” She is slightly breathless, trying to keep up. “One public statement, clean break. Two paragraphs and this all goes away.”
The elevator dings, and the doors slide open.
“Did you hear me? Daniel, this is the easiest fix—”
I step inside, turning to face her. “I heard you.”
“Then—”
The doors start to close. She reaches out to stop them, but I don’t move.
“Daniel, please. Just think about it.”
***
I make it to my car on autopilot. Sit in the driver's seat. Don't start the engine.
My hands are shaking.
The board wants me out. Lottie wants me to issue a breakup statement. Everyone wants me to choose the company over Bailey, and the terrifying part is—they're not wrong.
This relationship has cost us Whitmore. Cost us Larsson. Put my position as CEO in jeopardy. Everything I've spent twenty years building is threatened because I couldn't keep my distance from one woman.
I think about my mother. How love made her vulnerable. How vulnerability got her killed.
I'm doing exactly what she did—ignoring every rational alarm because something feels right. Letting emotion override logic. Letting someone matter more than survival.
My phone buzzes.
Bailey: Can we talk tonight? I need to tell you something important.
I stare at the message. My brain immediately spirals through possibilities. She wants to talk about us. About where this is going. About the future. She's going to ask for something I can't give—promises, commitment, a relationship that doesn't destroy everything I've built.
Or worse. She's going to say she loves me.
And if she says it, I'll have to say it back. Because I do. God help me, I love her. I'm in so deep I can't see daylight anymore.
And that's the most dangerous thing of all.
I can't be my father. I can't become the kind of man who clings and controls and destroys. The only way to prevent that is to end this before it consumes us both.
My thumbs move across the screen before I can second-guess myself.
Me: My place. 8pm.
I set the phone down and grip the steering wheel until my knuckles turn white.
I know what I have to do. It has to be brutal—clean breaks leave room for reconciliation. I need Bailey to hate me so she'll walk away and never look back.
It's protecting her. She's strong. She'll recover. She'll find someone better—someone who isn't broken beyond repair.
I'll go back to control and safety. Back to the life I built before she walked into it and turned everything upside down.
The logic is sound. The plan is clear.
So why does it feel like I'm about to destroy the only real thing I've ever had?
***
By the time I reach my penthouse, I've rehearsed what I'll say a dozen times. Each version sounds more hollow than the last.
It's 7:30. I have thirty minutes.
I pour a scotch I don't drink. Pace the living room. Try not to think about London. About how she looked at me when I told her about my parents. About how she didn't run.
My phone buzzes with reminders I ignore. Texts from Lottie I delete without reading.
At 7:45, I catch my reflection in the window. The man staring back looks like my father—cold, controlled, ready to hurt someone to maintain that control.
I think about my mother's face. The way she used to smile at me before my father's rage became all-consuming. The way she stayed anyway, convinced her love could save him.
It couldn't. Love didn't save her. It got her killed.
I won't do that to Bailey. I won't make her waste her life trying to save someone who's already broken.
The choice is clear: become my father, desperate and clinging, or end it now while I still have the strength.
I check my watch. 7:55.
Any minute now, she'll knock on that door. She'll look at me with those dark eyes full of hope and trust and something that looks dangerously like love.
And I'll destroy it all.
Because that's what I do. I destroy things before they can destroy me.
The knock comes at exactly 8:00.
I take one last breath. Feel the armor slide into place—cold, impenetrable, final.
I open the door.
Bailey stands in the hallway wearing a blue dress I've never seen before. Her hair is down, falling in soft waves around her shoulders. She's nervous—I can see it in the way she's gripping her purse, in the slight tremor of her smile.
"Hi," she says softly.
"Come in."
She enters, and I close the door behind her. The click of the lock sounds like a cell door slamming shut.
She sets her purse on the console table, turns to face me. "Thanks for meeting with me. I know things have been... complicated."
I don't move from my position by the door. Keep the physical distance between us. If I get too close, I'll lose my nerve.
"Daniel?" She takes a step toward me. "Are you okay? You seem—"