Chapter 18 - Gabriel
Ruining a man shouldn’t feel this good.
On the bank of monitors lining the wall of my office, a ticker tape of financial carnage scrolls across the bottom of the screen. Thornton Enterprises. Down twelve points. Down twenty. Down thirty-five.
It’s a fucking freefall.
The SEC leak dropped an hour ago. The allegations of insider trading and asset inflation hit the news cycle like a bomb, and now I’m just watching the dust settle.
Leather creaks as I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers while the anchor on CNBC breathlessly discusses the "unprecedented collapse" of one of the Pacific Northwest’s most stable real estate empires. They use words like shocking and catastrophic.
I call it overdue.
James Thornton thought he could try to encroach on my territory.
He thought he could whisper in my son’s ear, turn my own blood against me, and carve out a piece of my legacy for himself.
He mistook silence for weakness. He didn't realize that while he played checkers, I’d already wired the board with C4.
My phone buzzes on the desk.
Cohen.
"Give me good news," I say, answering the call on speaker.
"He's hemorrhaging," Cohen says, chuckling. "The board just called an emergency vote of no confidence. They’re freezing his access to company accounts effective immediately. He’s liquidating personal assets to try and cover the margin calls, but it’s like trying to stop a tsunami with a paper cup."
"And Ryder?"
"Spotted walking into Thornton’s office twenty minutes ago. My guy said he looked manic. Security tried to stop him, but he caused a scene."
A cold amusement settles in my chest.
Ryder ran to the sinking ship thinking it was a life raft.
"He’s going to be desperate," Cohen warns. "Desperate men do stupid things."
"Let him. If he wants to drown with James, I’ll personally hold his head under."
"Oh, by the way. The Six confirmed for the gala," Cohen adds, shifting gears. "Well, not all of them. Cole, Romeo, Beckett, and Xander. If Ryder tries anything, he won’t get far."
"Good."
"You sure about this, Gabe? Things are going to get messy."
"Messy is the point."
“If you say so.”
“I do.” I end the call.
Standing, I walk to the floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the town. Snow falls steadily, coating Emerald Hills in a deceptive layer of white purity. Beneath it, a little bit of the rot is being purged.
It’s three days until Christmas.
Just three more days until I walk into that ballroom with Blair on my arm and end this once and for all.
I check the time. My own board meeting starts in ten minutes. They’ll be panicked, wondering if the SEC contagion will spread to us. I’ll walk in there, calm and untouched, and show them that while others burn, Hollis Properties stands fireproof.
I built it that way.
By two o'clock, the fire at Thornton’s has turned into an inferno, and I decide I’ve watched enough.
My executive assistant looks surprised when I walk past his desk with my coat on.
"Mr. Hollis? You have a conference call with the Tokyo partners at four."
"Reschedule it," I say, not breaking stride. "I'm going home."
"Is everything alright?"
"Everything's perfect."
The drive by the lake gives me a second to breathe, to leave the bullshit with James and Ryder and all the work I’m letting go undone behind. Leaving downtown feels like shedding a skin. The shark stays in the office; the man goes home to his wife.
Wife.
The word still hits me with a visceral punch every time I think it. It’s an addiction I didn’t know I had until I put the ring on her finger. Every time I think about the fact she belongs to me for good, I get a high like no other.
Snow crunches under the tires of the Aston Martin as I pull through the gates. The estate glows in the twilight, warm yellow light spilling from the windows. It doesn't look like a fortress tonight. It looks like a home.
Blair’s in the kitchen when I walk in.
She’s wearing one of my sweaters—a cashmere crewneck that hangs off her shoulder—and leggings. Her hair is messy, piled on top of her head. The bruising on her face has faded significantly, leaving only faint shadows under her eyes and along her cheekbone.
She looks incredible.
"You're early," she says, turning from the stove.
"I didn’t want to be there anymore when you’re here.
" I cross the room, wrapping an arm around her waist and pulling her flush against me. It’s still hard for me to fathom the depth of my feelings for this woman.
For our unborn child growing inside of her.
I bury my face in the curve of her neck, inhaling the sweet scent of her. "How are you feeling?"
"Sore. Bored." She leans back against my hold. My grip tightens on her waist as I run my lips along her neck. Her head falls back on my shoulder and I cup her breast in my hand. It’s a little bigger already and she lets out a little moan that makes my dick hard when I brush my thumb across her nipple.
"What’s burning?" I ask, glancing over her shoulder at the stove.
"Oh, shit."
She pulls away from me and I fucking hate it. A pan of what looks like chicken is smoking ominously.
"I tried to cook," she admits, grabbing a towel to wave at the smoke. "The chef left a casserole, but I wanted to make something fresh. I thought, 'How hard can it be?' Turns out, very."
I chuckle, moving her gently aside.
"Sit," I order. "Before you burn the house down."
"I can salvage it."
"You really can't."
I take the pan off the heat, dumping the charred remains in the trash. Then I roll up my sleeves, washing my hands at the sink.
"What are you doing?" she asks, hopping onto a barstool.
"Making lunch. Since my wife is apparently a hazard in the kitchen."
"I didn't know you could cook."
"I didn't have a staff growing up. My mother worked two jobs. If I wanted to eat something that didn't come out of a microwave, I had to learn how to make it."
It’s a small piece of myself I rarely share. The poverty. The hunger. The drive that started not with ambition, but with an empty stomach.
She watches me, chin resting on her hand. Her eyes are soft.
"What are we making?"
"Pasta," I say, grabbing a box of linguine and fresh garlic. "It’s simple but most importantly, it’s foolproof."
We work together, if you count Blair eye fucking me while I move around the kitchen as work. It’s domestic in a way that should feel foreign, but instead feels like the only thing that’s ever made sense.
When I’m done, I set a plate in front of her on the counter and I take the seat beside her.
"Thornton Enterprises had a bad day today," I mention casually, twirling pasta on my fork.
Blair pauses, her glass of sparkling cider halfway to her mouth. "What do you mean?"
"Someone tipped off the SEC and they opened an investigation into insider trading. The stock is down forty percent. So far."
She lowers the glass. "Did you...?"
"What do you think?" She doesn't need to know the details, but I’m not going to lie to her, either. "Karma has a way of catching up to people."
She nods slowly, processing, I think. After a while, she gives me a soft smile. "Feel better?"
“I do.”
We eat in silence for a moment, the only sound the clinking of silverware.
"I've been thinking about names," she says suddenly.
My fork stills.
"For the baby?"
"Yeah. I know it’s early and anything could happen. But... I can't help it." She traces the rim of her glass. "If it’s a boy, I like Rowan."
Rowan.
I let it roll around in my mind. It’s strong. Simple.
"I like it. And if it’s a girl?"
"I haven't gotten that far.”
"You may not need to." I think of Ryder. I think of my own father, a man who left before I could form a memory of him. "The Hollis line hasn't produced a girl in three generations."
"Maybe we'll break the streak."
"Maybe."
Fear takes root inside of me when I think about what’s to come. I failed with Ryder. I gave him too much, taught him too little, and created a monster of entitlement. I don’t want to make the same mistakes again.
"I don't know how to do this," I admit, the words slipping out before I can stop them. "Parenting. I wasn't... I didn’t do a good job with Ryder."
Blair reaches over, covering my hand with hers.
"You're different now," she says. "You’ve gone through it before so you’ll know what to do differently this time. I mean, look at you. You're cooking dinner. You're present. That's all a kid needs, Gabriel. Someone who shows up. Someone who loves them."
I look at our joined hands, her skin against mine. The ring binding her to me.
"I won't let this one down," I vow.
"I know," she says.
Later, the fire crackles in the Great Room, casting long shadows across the floor.
We’re on the couch. A movie plays on the television—some Christmas movie Blair picked—but neither of us is watching.
She’s tucked into my side, her head on my chest, my arm wrapped around her. The Christmas tree glows in the corner, and with the firelight and her warmth, it doesn't feel quite so cold tonight.
This is peaceful. Everything I never thought I could have.
It’s a rare commodity in my life. Usually, my mind is racing, calculating the next move, the next acquisition.
But tonight, with Thornton crumbling and Ryder next on the list, there’s only quiet.
I run my hand up and down her arm, feeling the heat of her skin through the sweater.
In a few days, this peace will shatter. The gala will be a bloodbath, metaphorically but maybe literally, too, depending on how things go. Reputations will die. My son will be destroyed.
But for tonight, we just exist, absorbing as much of each other as we can.
"Gabriel?" she murmurs, sleepy.
"Hmm?"
"Thank you."
"For what?"
"For dicking me down in that club."
I huff out a laugh and I feel her grin against my skin. "Anytime, baby. Anytime."
She snuggles closer, and her breathing evens out as sleep takes her, but I stay awake long after she drifts off.
I feel the rise and fall of her breathing, watch how much she trusts me when her body is fully relaxed into mine as she sleeps.
Ryder tried to stop this. He tried to snuff out this light because he couldn’t stand to be in her shadow.
The dossier Cohen sent me earlier sits on my desk in the other room. It contains the police report from the accident. The photos of Blair’s car, crumpled against the guardrail. The lack of skid marks showing Ryder didn't even tap his brakes.
He tried to kill her.
He tried to kill my wife and my unborn child.
And for what? Because he didn’t hurt her enough when he publicly humiliated her? Or when he stole from her and tried to ruin her business? I don’t understand his motivation, but at this point, it doesn’t matter.
There is no redemption for what he’s done. There is no exile, no disinheritance, no prison sentence that balances that scale.
I look at the fire, watching a log slowly crumble into ash.
I kiss the top of Blair’s head, breathing her in as I keep watch.
Let them sleep. Let them dream.
Because when they wake up, the nightmare begins for everyone else.