Chapter 22 404 Love Not Found
LUKE
No one ever warned me that one day I’d be staring at the best quarterly reports in Sterling Security's history while feeling like absolute shit.
Outside, Seattle is doing its November thing. Rain turns into a snowy slush that whispers of winter just around the corner.
And it’s been eleven, so far.
Eleven days since I drove away from Sage's inn.
It’s hard not to fucking count them.
"These numbers are incredible," Kenji says, gesturing at the wall display showing SafeStay's metrics. "Implementation success rate is up 400%. Customer satisfaction is at 98%. And the reviews..."
He pulls up the latest batch, and I force myself to focus on the screen instead of wondering what Sage is doing right now.
Probably wrestling Buttercup.
Or fixing something while swearing like a sailor. Or—
"'Revolutionary security that actually understands hospitality,'" Kenji reads. "'Finally, a system that protects without imprisoning guests.' Luke, this is what we dreamed about when we started."
"Great," I say flatly.
He frowns. "You know, most CEOs would show some emotion when their product stops taking ambassadors hostage and starts getting rave reviews."
"I'm showing emotion."
"Which emotion?"
"Satisfaction."
"You look like someone murdered your goldfish."
"I don't have a goldfish."
"Metaphorical goldfish." He leans against my desk. "This is about the innkeeper, isn't it?"
"No."
"The innkeeper whose data revolutionized our entire platform?"
"She's not—It's not about her."
"Right. That's why you've been living at the office for three weeks and your assistant has started hiding your car keys after 10 PM."
"Daniella's exaggerating."
"You tried to sleep here Monday night."
"I was debugging code.”
"The couch has a you-shaped dent." He pulls up another slide. "Look, I get it. Breakups suck. But at least something good came from it. The modifications we made based on the Cascade View data? Game-changing."
I stare at the screen showing system improvements, each one tied to something that went wrong at Sage's inn.
The smooth jazz incident led to better audio controls.
Buttercup's escape artistry inspired enhanced pet-friendly protocols.
Even the shower disaster prompted better emergency response integration.
Every success reminds me of her.
"I'm heading to The Summit," I announce, standing abruptly.
"It's almost nine."
"They're open until midnight."
"Luke—"
"I need a drink, Kenji. One drink. I'll even order a car so Daniella doesn't stage an intervention."
He looks like he wants to argue, but something in my expression stops him. "Fine. But maybe try talking to your friends instead of your whiskey?"
"My friends are all disgustingly happy in their relationships," I mutter, grabbing my jacket. "I need someone who understands that love is a construct designed to make smart people do stupid things."
"That's the spirit," Kenji says dryly. "Very healthy."
Twenty minutes later, I'm at The Summit, grateful for once that the bar is nearly empty.
November weeknights aren't exactly peak socializing time for Seattle's elite, which suits me fine.
The last thing I need is—
"Sterling. Fancy seeing you here."
I turn to find Killian Greer at the bar, looking like a magazine ad for expensive depression.
His suit is impeccable, his whiskey is neat, and his expression suggests he's been exactly where I am mentally.
"Greer," I nod, taking the stool beside him. "Drinking alone on a Wednesday. That's either celebration or catastrophe."
He raises his glass. "Anniversary."
"Of?"
"Would have been twenty-one years today." He takes a sip. "Instead, it's eight months since the papers were signed."
“Fuck. I’m sorry.”
"Don't be. Fiona's much happier with husband number two. They're in Cabo right now. She posted photos." He pulls out his phone, shows me a picture of a woman who looks professionally happy on a beach. "That's him. My former CFO."
I wince. "That's..."
"Predictable?" He signals for another round. "The wife falling for the business partner? Tale as old as time."
The bartender brings my usual without asking, and I realize I've become a regular at a billionaire's bar.
When did that happen?
"So," Killian says, studying me. "Where's the innkeeper? Thought you two were Seattle's new power couple."
"We're not."
"Ah." He nods knowingly. "What ended it? The distance? The business complications? The fact that mixing romance with financial desperation never ends well?"
"She lied." The words come out before I can stop them. "Manipulated data on Grayson’s SecureMatch app to match with me. Hacked the algorithm."
Killian pauses mid-sip. "She hacked a dating app to get to you?"
“Fifteen times. Studied my profile like I was a business plan."
"That's..." He sets down his glass. "Actually quite resourceful."
"It's fraud."
"It's creative problem-solving." He's fighting a smile now. "Let me understand. A woman wanted your attention so badly she committed minor cybercrime?"
"It's not funny."
"It's a little funny." He's definitely smiling now. "My ex-wife spent twenty years slowly siphoning joint assets into private accounts. Your innkeeper hacked an app to get a date. These are not the same."
"She lied—"
"To meet you. Not to rob you." He turns to face me fully. "Did she ask for money?"
"No."
"Try to access your accounts?"
"No."
"Manipulate you into investments?"
"I offered. She refused."
"So her grand criminal plan was... to get you to notice her?"
I stare into my whiskey, swallowing.
Killian snorts into his drink, gaze downturned.
“Hey, look, mate. I’m the last person to advocate for romance.
Love is a chemical imbalance that makes rational people do irrational things.
" He pauses. "But if someone cared enough about meeting me to hack an entire platform? I'd at least be flattered."
"My ex-wife cheated with my cousin. Trust isn't exactly my strong suit."
"Ah." His expression softens. "The double betrayal. That explains the walls."
"Walls are protective."
"Walls are lonely." He signals for another round. "Trust me. I've built mine so high I need aviation clearance."
"You seem fine."
"I'm having my third whiskey at 9 PM on a Wednesday, talking to another emotionally stunted billionaire about our relationship failures." He raises his glass. "This is not fine."
We drink in companionable silence for a moment.
"The worst part," I say eventually, "is that SafeStay is succeeding because of her. Every bug we fixed, every improvement we made—it all came from the implementation at her inn.”
"Ironic."
"Infuriating." I pull up the reviews on my phone. "Look at this. 'Most intuitive security system for boutique properties.' That's because Sage's inn is chaos incarnate and we had to adapt to things like escape artist goats."
"Escape artist goats?"
"Don't ask." I scroll through more reviews. "And this one. 'Finally, security that enhances rather than hinders the guest experience.' That's because she made me understand that people choose small inns for the personal touch, not Fort Knox protection."
"She sounds insightful."
"She's brilliant." The admission slips out. "Chaotic and impulsive and absolutely brilliant. Do you know she created a whole spreadsheet system for predicting Buttercup's escape attempts?"
"Buttercup being the goat?"
"A goat with the problem-solving skills of a Navy SEAL." I find myself almost smiling. "Last I heard, she'd learned to pick locks."
"The innkeeper?"
"The goat. Though honestly, I wouldn't put it past Sage either."
Killian laughs—actually laughs. "My god, you're completely smitten."
"I'm not—"
"You're sitting in a bar, showing me goat reviews, and smiling for the first time since you sat down." He shakes his head. "You've got it bad."
"Had. Past tense."
"Present tense. Very present." He finishes his drink. "Can I tell you something? Something I wish someone had told me eight months ago?"
"Can I stop you?"
"Being right and being alone aren't mutually exclusive." He stands, pulling on his coat. "My ex-wife lied, cheated, and stole. Yours manipulated data to meet you. One of these things is not like the other."
"Trust is trust."
"Trust is a choice." He buttons his coat with practiced precision. "And you can choose to punish her forever for a desperate decision, or you can choose to see it for what it probably was—a lonely woman taking a ridiculous risk to meet someone she thought could change her life."
"That's very philosophical for someone who called love a chemical imbalance."
"Whiskey makes me wise." He pauses. "Also, I've been seeing a therapist. She's annoyingly insightful about my tendency to catastrophize."
"Maybe I should get her number."
"Maybe you should call the innkeeper."
"Sage."
"Even her name is interesting." He heads for the door, then turns back. "Luke? Take it from someone eight months into righteous solitude—being right is a cold bedfellow."
He leaves, and I sit there nursing my whiskey and staring at my phone, thinking of that damn eleven again.
The number of days of not calling her.
Of not texting.
Of definitely not driving past the inn last Tuesday at 2 AM like some kind of stalker.
My phone buzzes.
For a wild moment, I think it might be her, but it's just Daniella.
Your 7 AM tomorrow is moved to 8. Also, stop drinking alone. It's depressing and you're bad at it.
"How does she know?" I mutter.
The bartender, who's been pretending not to eavesdrop, smirks. "She called earlier. Said if you showed up to cut you off after three."
"I've had two."
"And you've been staring at that same photo for ten minutes."
I look down.
I've unconsciously pulled up the inn's website, where a photo of Sage and Buttercup graces the homepage. She's laughing, hair wild, wearing overalls that have seen better days.
She looks happy and real and nothing like someone who would intentionally hurt anyone.
"She's pretty," the bartender offers.
“’Pretty’ doesn’t even cover half of what she is,” I admit to my whiskey.
"So call her."
"She lied to me."
"And you're sitting in a bar on a Wednesday, miserable about it." He wipes down the already clean counter. "Seems like you're both suffering."
"When did bartenders become therapists?"
"Comes with the territory. That'll be eighty-seven dollars."
"For two drinks?"
"Premium whiskey for premium sulking."
I pay and head for the exit, Seattle's November rain greeting me like an old enemy.
The driver I’ve ordered shows a five-minute wait, so I stand under the awning and definitely don't think about calling Sage.
Except I am thinking about it.
Thinking about her voice, her laugh, the way she says my name when she's exasperated.
Thinking about how empty my apartment feels, how colorless my days have become, how even professional success tastes like ash without someone to share it with.
"This is stupid," I tell the rain.
The rain doesn't argue.
Eleven.
Tomorrow will be twelve days.
Then soon it’ll be Thanksgiving, which I'll spend alone because I’m an only child, my parents are in Aspen, and the thought of facing my grandmother's matchmaking attempts feels exhausting.
Then December. Then a new year, then—
"Sir?" The driver pulls up, brows knit together under his cap. "You getting in?"
I hadn't even noticed the car arrive.
"Yeah. Sorry."
As we drive through Seattle's wet streets, I pull up Sage's contact.
Her name sits there, mocking me with its simplicity.
One tap and I could hear her voice.
One tap and—
And what? Forgive her for lying? Pretend it didn't happen? Open myself up to being hurt again?
"You okay back there?" the driver asks. "You're sighing a lot."
"I'm fine."
"You know, my wife and I broke up for six months once. Stubborn pride on both sides. Worst six months of my life."
For fuck’s sake, can the entire city smell the woman problems on me?
I sigh again. “What changed?"
"Realized being right wasn't worth being miserable." He glances in the mirror. "Been married twenty-three years now."
"She didn't lie to you though."
"She told me she was a natural blonde for two years." He grins. "Found out at her sister's wedding when the photos showed her roots. Trust isn't about never making mistakes. It's about choosing to forgive them."
“That’s a hell of a lot of insight for a simple car service.”
"Tuesday nights. Premium service."
I laugh. Actually laugh.
Maybe Killian was right. Maybe being right is a cold bedfellow.
Maybe eleven days is long enough.
Maybe—
My phone rings. For a moment, I think I've accidentally called Sage, but it's Connor.
"Emergency brunch meeting Sunday," he says without preamble. "Callum's having a crisis about wedding venues. You're coming."
"I don't—"
"You're coming. And Luke? Maybe wash your hair first. Daniella says you're entering hermit territory."
He hangs up before I can protest.
Sunday.
Four days away.
I close Sage's contact without calling. But I don't delete it either.
Progress, maybe.
Or just another form of torture.
At this point, it's hard to tell the difference.