CHAPTER 17
Choosing Love Over Control
Brad — POV
Brad stopped going to meetings.
Not all of them at once.
At first, it was just one.
Then another.
Then a third that he "rescheduled" and never rescheduled again.
People noticed.
His assistant noticed first.
"Sir," she said carefully one morning, standing at the edge of his office like she wasn't sure how close she was allowed to come. "Your calendar is... unusually empty this week."
Brad didn't look up from his desk.
"I know," he said.
A pause.
"That wasn't a mistake?"
"No."
That was all he gave.
No explanation. No justification.
Just certainty.
The assistant hesitated. "The board is asking for your presence on the AI expansion review. It's important."
Brad finally leaned back in his chair.
"Everything is important," he said.
That made her pause.
Because he never used to talk like that.
He used to rank importance like a machine.
Now he didn't.
"I'll handle it later," he added.
The assistant looked like she wanted to say more.
But didn't.
She left quietly.
And the door closing felt louder than it should have.
Brad stood alone on the deck of his Gorge house after that.
The Columbia River stretched below him, dark and endless. The lights of Hood River flickered across the water — so close, so far.
Everything he had built. Everything he owned. Everything he was supposed to care about.
None of it pulled him forward anymore.
Only one thing did.
Kathy.
And the way she looked at him the last time she saw him.
Not angry in a loud way.
Not dramatic.
Just disappointed.
That was worse.
Because anger fades.
Disappointment stays.
Brad walked over to the window and rested one hand against the glass. The surface was cold — colder than he expected.
"I didn't want it to be like that," he said quietly.
But the room didn't respond.
It never did.
That night, he made a decision.
Not a business decision.
Not a strategic one.
A personal one.
He shut down his laptop.
Ignored his phone.
And started writing.
Not emails.
Not reports.
A message.
To her.
He stopped halfway through the first line.
Deleted it.
Started again.
Stopped again.
Frustrated now.
Because nothing he wrote sounded right.
Everything sounded like control.
Or explanation.
Or defense.
And none of that was what he wanted.
He leaned back and rubbed his face. His palm scraped against stubble — he hadn't shaved in two days.
"I don't know how to do this," he admitted quietly.
That was new for him.
Not knowing.
Not controlling.
Not fixing.
Just... failing to say the right thing.
He looked at the blank screen again.
Then shut it off completely.
"I'll do it in person," he said.
Like it was a decision.
Like it was the only one that made sense anymore.
The next morning, he didn't wear anything special.
No tailored suit chosen by assistants.
No polished version of himself built for rooms full of people who expected perfection.
Just a simple shirt.
A coat.
No performance.
At least, that's what he told himself.
But standing in front of the mirror, he still looked the same.
Still too put together.
Still too far removed from the man she had first met.
Brad stared at his reflection for a long moment.
"You don't get to hide this time," he said quietly to himself.
Then he left.
The drive to the flower shop felt longer than usual.
Not because of distance.
Because of thought.
Every stoplight felt like a decision.
Every turn felt like a point of no return.
His driver didn't speak. The silence in the car was heavy — the kind of silence that knew something important was about to happen.
No one did.
Brad finally said, "Wait outside."
The driver nodded.
And Brad stepped out alone.
For the first time in a long time.
No security around him.
No assistant behind him.
Just him.
And the door to the shop.
The bell above it looked different today.
He didn't know why.
He opened the door.
It rang softly — that same bronze, worn chime.
Kathy was inside.
Of course she was.
Standing behind the counter.
Working.
Focused.
Normal.
Until she looked up.
And saw him.
Everything stopped.
For both of them.
Brad stepped inside slowly.
"Kathy," he said.
Her expression tightened immediately.
Not anger.
Not softness.
Something guarded.
He noticed that right away.
And for the first time, he didn't try to control the moment.
He just stood there.
No excuses ready.
No systems to rely on.
Just the truth he had finally accepted too late:
He couldn't fix what he did with power.
Only honesty.
"I came to talk," he said quietly.
A pause.
Then, softer:
"Without control this time."