Chapter 28
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
In which we return to a gloomy New York to talk to the FBI, and I finally allow myself to let go.
The familiar Manhattan skyline loomed above me as I stepped out of my private car, but after weeks in Melbourne, the city felt foreign, almost hostile. Gone were the endless azure skies and golden sunshine I’d grown accustomed to down under, replaced by a heavy gray ceiling of clouds that pressed down on the concrete canyon of buildings.
The biting wind whipped between the buildings, carrying the acrid scent of exhaust and wet pavement, making me miss Melbourne’s warmth even more. February in New York showed its ugliest face today—what had started as pristine white snow had devolved into treacherous gray slush that pooled in deceptively deep puddles along the curb.
I teetered on the edge of one, attempting to maintain some semblance of dignity while playing an awkward game of hopscotch around the mounds of dirty snow in my Italian leather shoes. Ocean, who had gotten out before me, made it look easy, of course, sidestepping puddles with grace.
“Careful!” He grabbed my wrist, preventing me from face-planting. I’d been watching him instead of the sidewalk. Oops.
“Thank you.”
He gently shook his head, smiling, then took my hand and laced our fingers together. A thrill rushed through me. I loved that he was so open in his affections, not caring who saw.
We were in lower Manhattan, a few blocks from Wall Street, to meet with the FBI agent I had spoken to the day before. He’d been intrigued when I’d talked to him about my suspicions of corporate espionage and, much to my surprise, had set up a meeting for today. I hadn’t realized federal agents could move that quickly, so that had been a welcome surprise.
The second surprise had been Ocean insisting on coming with me. I’d assured him he didn’t have to, but he’d made clear it wasn’t up for debate. His presence meant more than I could put into words.
He squeezed my hand, the gentle pressure sending warmth through my chilled fingers and straight to my heart. When he let go, the loss of contact left me oddly bereft, but he made up for it by stepping ahead to hold open the gleaming glass door of the imposing FBI building.
The stark, utilitarian lobby held none of the elegance I was used to in corporate buildings—all function, zero aesthetics. We surrendered our IDs to a stern-faced security officer who scrutinized them with laser focus before issuing us visitor passes that hung around our necks like bright-yellow badges of temporary belonging.
The security screening reminded me of airports, but more intense: emptying pockets, removing watches and belts, stepping through metal detectors while grim-faced officers waved wands over us with practiced efficiency. Our bags went through x-ray machines, examined from every angle. The heightened security made sense—One World Trade’s sleek silhouette loomed visible through the windows, a constant reminder of why such vigilance was necessary in the heart of New York’s financial district.
Agent Harold Thompson—the FBI agent I’d spoken to on the phone the day before—was a tall, broad-shouldered man with close-cropped gray hair and an intimidating handshake. His piercing blue eyes seemed to look right through me as if he had x-ray vision, which wouldn’t be a bad thing in his line of work.
“Mr. Sullivan,” Thompson said, gesturing for us to take a seat in his austere office. His gaze landed on Ocean with laser-like focus. “And you are?”
“Palmer Levine.” Ocean settled into the chair with his usual fluid grace, but I noticed the slight tension in his shoulders. “Preston Levine’s son.”
Thompson’s eyebrows shot up. “Interesting.” He shuffled some papers on his desk, then leaned forward. “Very interesting. We’ve been keeping tabs on Mr. Levine and his company for some time now.”
My heart skipped a beat. “You have?”
“I can’t disclose the details of ongoing investigations, but your information about potential corporate espionage fits a pattern we’ve been seeing.” Thompson’s pen tapped against his desk. “Tell me exactly what happened with your accountant.”
I laid out the situation, explaining how Bill Markowitz, my accountant, had conducted the audit for Krause Group, and then, somehow, Preston had known details about my offer that only someone with inside knowledge could have known. “Garrett Krause confirmed he had not made his desire to sell his company public and had wondered how Mr. Levine found out about it.”
Thompson jotted down some notes on his notepad. “And you’re certain your accountant was the source of this leak?”
“Mr. Krause confirmed Mr. Levine’s offer was barely above mine. Enough to beat me, but curiously close for someone who shouldn’t have had that much knowledge about the Krause Group since he hadn’t accessed their books yet. He made a blind offer that was enough to beat mine. And this wasn’t the first time. I’ve lost out on several deals in the last six months that, in hindsight, must’ve gone wrong because Markowitz shared numbers with Mr. Levine. He or one of his friends or business partners managed to get every deal I lost out on.”
I’d done some digging on the plane and had discovered that each deal I’d missed out on had been snapped up by either Preston or a known associate of his.
“That’s pretty damning,” Thompson agreed. His sharp gaze shifted to Ocean. “You said you’re Preston Levine’s son?”
“Yes.”
“Judging by your presence here, I’m assuming you’re not close with him?”
“I haven’t seen him since I was nineteen, almost five years ago.” Ocean’s voice was steady, but I caught the slight tremor in his hands. “And that was when he assaulted me with a baseball bat.”
Thompson’s pen stopped moving, and when he met Ocean’s eyes, they were narrowed and sharp. “He assaulted you?”
“Yes.”
“Was there anything specific that triggered that event?”
“He’d found out I was gay.”
“Jesus fuck,” Thompson muttered, the first crack in his professional and detached demeanor. “I’m sorry, kid.”
“Thank you.” Ocean swallowed. “But even before that, I barely saw him. He’s been an absent father for most of my life.”
Thompson played with his pen again, a deep-thinking frown on his forehead. “Do you remember the exact date of the assault?”
“March fifteenth. Kind of hard to forget.” Ocean’s laugh held no humor. “Why?”
“New York has a five-year statute of limitations on aggravated assault.” Thompson’s eyes held Ocean’s. “You still have time to press charges, but not much. If that’s something you want to do, you’d have to talk to the NYPD soon.”
The silence in the room was heavy. I wanted to reach for Ocean’s hand but held back, not sure if he’d want that display of affection here. “I’ll think about it,” Ocean finally said, his voice rough.
Thompson nodded, then turned back to me. “About your accountant, I assume you’re planning to fire him?”
“I’ve been considering it. But I’m worried if I do, he might destroy evidence.”
“Smart thinking.” Thompson tapped his pen against the desk. “Give us two weeks to build the case. We’ll need to get a subpoena to collect and preserve any evidence before you make any moves.”
“That makes sense. I’ll keep everything as normal as possible.”
“Actually…” Ocean leaned forward. “What if we set a trap?”
Thompson’s eyebrows rose with interest. “What kind of trap?”
“Cash could pretend to be interested in buying another company. One he actually has no intention of acquiring. Let Markowitz dig into their books, then see if Preston makes a move.” Ocean’s voice held a touch of satisfaction. “If he does, with the FBI watching…”
“We’d catch them red-handed,” Thompson finished, a predatory smile spreading across his face. “I like how you think.”
The idea was brilliant in its simplicity. “I know a company we could use for this,” I said, thinking of my friend Marcus, whose tech startup was struggling. “A friend has been trying to sell, but the company’s financials aren’t great. I’d never buy it, but Preston wouldn’t know that.”
“Perfect,” Thompson said, scribbling in his notepad. “Set it up, but don’t do anything else until you hear from me. We’ll need to coordinate our surveillance.”
By the time we left the FBI building, my head was spinning with plans and possibilities. The slush had gotten worse, if possible, but this time, I navigated it more carefully, Ocean’s steady presence beside me a comfort.
“You okay?” I asked him as we slid into my car’s warm interior. “That stuff about pressing charges…”
Ocean stared out the window for a long moment. “I don’t know. Part of me wants to make him pay, but another part wants to leave it all behind.” He turned to me, his eyes serious. “Is it weird that I’m more excited about catching him for this corporate stuff than making him answer for what he did to me?”
I reached for his hand, needing to touch him. “Not weird at all. Sometimes, it’s easier to fight for others than for yourself.”
His fingers tightened around mine. “Yeah, that’s exactly it.”
The drive back to my Central Park apartment was quiet, both of us lost in our thoughts. Ocean’s thumb traced absent patterns on my palm, the gentle touch grounding me as the city rolled past our tinted windows.
“I should call Oliver,” I said, breaking the contemplative silence. “Get him started on the Marcus situation.”
Ocean nodded. “The sooner we set this in motion, the better.”
I pulled out my phone and dialed my PA’s number. Oliver picked up on the first ring, efficient as always. “What did the FBI say?”
“I need you to reach out to Marcus Chen. Set up a meeting to discuss acquiring TechVibe. Make it seem urgent. I want this on Markowitz’s radar by tomorrow.”
As expected, Oliver caught on immediately. “I will set that right up. Will you give Mr. Chen a heads-up, or would you like me to?”
“Give him a quick call and tell him I’ll catch him up tomorrow.”
After hanging up, I caught Ocean watching me with that knowing smile of his that made my insides flutter. “What?”
“You’re good at this,” he said. “The whole cloak and dagger thing. It’s kind of hot.”
Heat crept up my neck. “Thank you.”
“Mm-hmm.” He leaned closer. “And now you’re going to do exactly what I tell you to do.”
My breath caught. “Am I?”
“Yes.” His voice dropped lower, sending shivers down my spine. “When we get home, you’re going to take a nice, long bath while I order dinner. You’ve been carrying too much tension in those shoulders.”
Fuck yes. I didn’t even want to protest. “Okay.”
“Good boy.”
Yup, those words still did it for me. They reached inside to a place I couldn’t get to myself, a button only he could push. And the result was a joy unlike anything else, this deep, deep sense of rightness, of being exactly who and where I was supposed to be. Pretty existential for two simple words, but the truth nonetheless.
Back at my apartment, Ocean made good on his promise. Before I could even think about checking emails or making calls, he had me heading toward the primary bathroom, his hand firm but gentle on the small of my back.
“Go on.” His voice carried a note of authority that made my knees weak. “I’ll order dinner while you relax.”
The bathroom was my pride and joy, all sleek marble and chrome with a deep soaking tub that could easily fit two people. As I started running the water, adding the fancy bath salts my housekeeper always kept stocked but were rarely used, I heard Ocean’s voice from the other room, ordering what sounded like Thai food.
The domesticity of it all hit me then—him taking care of me, ordering dinner, making sure I took time to decompress. It felt right in a way I couldn’t quite explain. I sank into the hot water, letting out a long breath as the heat began to work its magic on my tense muscles. Ocean hadn’t been wrong that I carried tension in my shoulders, though I hadn’t realized how much until now. Funny how he always saw these things before I became aware of them myself.
“You okay in there?” Ocean called from the bedroom.
“Yeah.” The word was there, right on the tip of my tongue. Daddy. I wanted to say it so badly, wanted to fully embrace this dynamic between us, but something held me back. Maybe it was the newness of it all, or maybe I was still adjusting to this side of myself that I’d kept buried for so long. But I had time. Ocean wouldn’t rush me.
When I emerged from the bathroom, wrapped in my thick robe, the smell of Thai food greeted me. Ocean had set up dinner on my massive dining room table, though he’d moved everything to one end so we could sit close together. The city lights twinkled through the floor-to-ceiling windows, creating a backdrop that had impressed countless hookups but had never felt intimate until now.
“This place is something else,” Ocean said, pulling out my chair. “It’s like being suspended in the sky.” He settled into his seat, taking in the panoramic view of a snow-covered Central Park. “Though I bet it gets lonely up here in the clouds.”
His words hit closer to home than I wanted to admit. I pushed my pad Thai around with my chopsticks. “It did. But not tonight.”
Ocean’s hand found mine across the table, his thumb stroking my knuckles. “Not anymore.”
The certainty in his voice made my chest tight with emotion. I’d filled this apartment with expensive art and designer furniture, but it had never felt like home until Ocean walked in, bringing life and warmth to the cold, modern space with nothing more than his presence.
“Not anymore,” I echoed, squeezing his hand. The city lights caught in his eyes, making them look even more like oceans, deep and mysterious and endless.
He held my gaze for a long moment, then released my hand to dig into his green curry. “Food’s getting cold. Eat.”
The command was gentle but firm, and I obeyed without thought. The first bite reminded me how hungry I was. Lunch seemed like it had been yesterday, but that was also because my body was still so messed up from the time difference.
“You know what I love about New York?” Ocean asked between bites. “How the City feels like it’s in constant motion, like waves crashing against a shore. Melbourne’s got its own rhythm, more like a gentle rocking of the waves, but here?” He gestured at the window with his chopsticks. “It’s like a storm at sea, beautiful and chaotic.”
I smiled at the metaphor, which should’ve been so cheesy and over the top but fit him to a T. “I used to hate the chaos. Now I barely notice it.”
“That’s because you’re part of it.” He reached over to steal a piece of chicken from my pad Thai. “You’re like one of those sleek boats cutting through rough waters, making it look effortless when, really, you’re fighting the current every step of the way.”
The accuracy of that observation made me pause. “I do feel like that sometimes.”
“I know. That’s why you need someone to be your anchor. To help you weather the storm.”
“You are.” The words caught in my throat, thick with emotion. Ocean watched me, patient and understanding, giving me time to find my voice. “You are,” I finally managed. “My anchor.”
His smile lit up his whole face. “Good. Because I plan on sticking around for a long time.”
We finished dinner with easy conversation. Ocean told me about his favorite surfing spots in Australia, his eyes lighting up as he described the perfect waves. I shared stories about my early days in business, including some of my most spectacular failures.
“You should’ve seen me in my first board meeting,” I said, laughing at the memory. “Twenty-five years old, wearing a suit that cost more than my rent but still didn’t fit right, trying to convince a room full of sixty-year-old men to trust me with their money.”
Did they?
“Eventually. But only after I’d sweated through that expensive suit.”
Ocean’s laugh was warm and rich. “I bet you were adorable.”
“I was terrified.”
“That too.” He pushed his empty plate aside and stretched, his shirt riding up to reveal a tantalizing strip of skin. “But look at you now. Bringing down corporate spies with the FBI.”
The reminder sobered me. “I hope this works.”
“It will.” Ocean’s conviction was absolute. “And even if it doesn’t, we’ll figure something else out.” His use of “we” sent warmth spreading through my chest. “Now, come here.”
I looked up, caught off guard. “What?”
“Come. Here.” Each word was a gentle command that bypassed my brain and went straight to my core. Before I knew what I was doing, I stood, drawn to him like he had his own gravitational pull.
Ocean pushed his chair back from the table and patted his lap. “Sit.”
The word “Daddy” trembled on my lips again as I settled onto his strong thighs. His arms came around me, and I melted against his chest.
“There you go,” he murmured, one hand sliding up to massage my neck. “Just let go for me. I’ve got you.”
He did…and I closed my eyes and let go.
“Yes, Daddy.”