8. The Ex Files
8
THE EX FILES
CONNOR
The Summit's private boxing ring sits forty stories above Seattle, a glass-enclosed sanctuary where the city's elite come to punch their problems away. At half a million dollars a year in membership fees, it's the kind of place that billionaires pay to be just because they can.
But right now, a week after officially hiring Ariana, watching the March sunset paint the Olympics in gold, all I can think about is control.
"Again," I tell Alex, raising my gloves. The ring echoes with the sound of impact as he obliges, his left hook catching me slightly off-guard.
I'm distracted – a state I’ve never been a fan of.
"Your head's not in it," Alex notes, dancing back. Sweat darkens his custom Summit gear – the kind they only give to its elite members. "Board meeting issues?"
I throw a combination that makes him stumble. "The IPO's fine."
"Didn't mention the IPO." He grins, blocking my next jab. "Though I hear you hired some interesting new PR talent. "
"Don't."
"What? I'm just saying, hiring your Vegas ‘non-wife’ seems?—"
My next punch catches him in the shoulder.
"Touched a nerve there," Grayson calls from where he's wrapping his hands by the ring. The Summit's smart glass windows automatically dim against the setting sun behind him, a hundred thousand dollars of engineering just to keep the glare off Seattle's most expensive boxing ring.
"Less commentary, more boxing." I adjust my stance, the familiar routine centering me.
Control the breath. Control the movement. Control everything.
"Speaking of control issues," Grayson steps into the ring, "when exactly were you planning to tell us about your latest attempt to avoid emotional entanglement?"
"There's nothing to tell." I duck Alex's swing, muscle memory taking over. "It's a business arrangement."
"Everything's business with you when it comes to women.” Gray’s bourbon-brown eyes narrow. “Come to think of it, when’s the last time you’ve in a relationship?”
“I have…dates.”
“No. You have sex.”
“Which is probably why I don’t have relationships.”
“Ah, and what do you call Amanda?”
Just the mention of her name makes my chest tighten.
“I call her old news.”
“From what you used to mention about her, she was a pretty big deal for you back in college. In fact, you once said that you thought she was the love of your?—“
“Alright. Fuck it. Since we’re not paying attention to the sparring…" I step back, stripping off my gloves.
"He's right though," Alex says, following me to the bench. " You’re not just a person who doesn’t ‘do relationships’, Con. Your ass is practically allergic to them.”
“Building a business required a lot of sacrifice.” I grab my water bottle, the cool leather of The Summit's custom seating grounding me. “Excuse me for not laying my company at the altar of some body chemistry that makes me people feel like idiots.”
“Is that how you categorize love?” Alex laughs, running a hand through his sweaty, sandy-brown hair. “And what about happened in Vegas?” He waits a beat, eyeing me. “Ariana?”
“What about her? She was an…anomaly in Vegas. And now, she's simply an asset to the company while I fix this mess.”
"Right." Alex exchanges looks with Grayson. "Because you always hire assets that make you forget your combination sequences."
"I didn't?—"
"Three missed blocks," Grayson counts off. "Two telegraphed jabs. And you actually let your guard drop on that last exchange."
"I'm not having this conversation." I head for the locker room, the Italian marble cool under my bare feet. "Especially not with two love-sick fools sacrificing themselves at the altar of some antiquated infatuation ritual known as marriage.”
Their laughter follows me through The Summit's pristine facilities, past the cryptocurrency mining rigs that power the building's heat, past the meditation room where Seattle's elite pretend to find inner peace between hostile takeovers.
The Summit spares no expense. Italian marble beneath my feet. Climate-controlled air that never carries the scent of sweat. Private showers stocked with high-end products I barely notice but still use.
I strip down, stepping under the spray, letting scalding water pound against my shoulders. I roll my neck, but the tension doesn’t ease. I grab my shampoo, working it through my dark blond hair—now streaked with silver more than ever. Another reminder that time doesn’t negotiate.
By the time I’m out, dressed in a crisp, tailored black suit, I look like the man I need to be. The one who knows love is a cosmic trick. Nothing more.
My reflection stares back from the mirror—gray-blue eyes sharp, jaw freshly shaved, hair neatly styled.
Two hours later, I step into Violette, the kind of restaurant where the wine list costs more than most people's monthly mortgages. The maitre d' greets me by name, leading me to my usual corner table where the acoustics are perfect for private conversations.
Everything is in order. Everything planned.
Until Ariana walks in.
My pulse kicks hard.
She’s wearing a deep red dress that clings in all the right places, elegant yet sharp enough to remind anyone who underestimates her that she’s not just a pretty face.
Dark brown hair cascades over her shoulders, waves catching the candlelight like temptation incarnate.
I shouldn’t notice her legs.
Or the curve of her waist. Or the way her deep brown eyes scan the room, calculating, assessing—just like mine.
No way.
No way am I letting this get under my skin.
Not when I know better. Not when I’ve seen what love does—how it strips you bare, leaves you vulnerable to betrayal, abandonment. My mother and Amanda proved that. My father reinforced it.
And James…
I shove the thought away, burying it deep as I adjust my cufflinks.
She finally spots me, her lips curving into something too perceptive, too damn confident .
She reaches the table, a slow smile curving her lips. "You look… polished. Almost human."
I smirk, circling the table to take out her chair. "You look… like you’re about to cause trouble."
She sits as I push her in. “You say that like it's a bad thing."
I take my own seat. “I say that like it's inevitable."
"And here I thought you'd at least try for a ‘hello.’"
“Hello, Ariana."
"Hello, Connor." She tilts her head. "There, was that so hard?"
"Excruciating."
She laughs, low and amused. "At least you're honest."
"Always. Now, should we get to business, or would you prefer to keep testing my patience?"
"Oh, I fully intend to test your patience," she says, picking up the menu. "But let’s order first. Wouldn't want you ‘charming me’ on an empty stomach."
I lean back, watching her with a smirk. "Wouldn't dream of it."
The waiter arrives, and we settle into the meal, the air between us crackling with something that feels an awful lot like the beginning of a very precarious game.
"You're staring," she says, perusing the wine list.
"Assessing," I correct, forcing my eyes away. The word 'observing' feels too personal suddenly. "Professional assessment."
"Is that what we're calling it?"
"Would you prefer 'strategic evaluation'?"
Now she does look up, something flittering in her cocoa-brown irises. ”Is that a CEO thing or just a you thing?"
"Both." I signal the sommelier, grateful for the interruption. "Though I notice you've developed some control issues of your own."
"Meaning? "
"You're still wearing those earrings.”
Her hand flies to her ear, then drops when she catches my expression. “They match my outfit."
"Of course they do.”
"Are you always this difficult?”
"Only with PR executives I've accidentally acquired in Vegas."
"Acquired?" One eyebrow arches. "Interesting word choice."
"Would you prefer 'temporarily aligned with'?"
"I'd prefer we discuss exactly how you plan to handle the Elvis chapel situation."
"Simple." I accept the wine list from the sommelier, grateful for familiar territory. "We buy their silence."
"That's your solution to everything, isn't it?" But there's an edge to her smile now. "Throw money at it until it goes away?"
“Says the woman who just accepted double her previous salary."
"Triple, actually." She sips her water, and I definitely don't notice how her throat moves when she swallows. "I checked market rates."
"Ambitious."
"Realistic." Her eyes meet mine over the rim of her glass. "I know what I'm worth."
Something shifts in my chest – recognition maybe. Because she does know, her worth probably better than anyone I've met. It's there in the way she carries herself, the sharp intelligence behind every word. The complete lack of need for anyone's approval.
"Fair enough." I study her, noting the subtle tells of someone else who's built their walls brick by brick. "Though I'm curious why you're not demanding more."
"More than triple?"
"More than freelance work." I lean forward. "You could start your own firm. Build something permanent. "
Something flickers across her face. “I’ve thought about it…But maybe I don't want permanent."
"Everyone wants permanent."
"Says the man who's never kept a relationship longer than a business quarter."
“Huh. You researched me."
"Know your opponent." She shrugs, but there's nothing casual about it. "Isn't that what they teach at Stanford Business School?"
"Opponent?"
"Partner then."
"Better." I signal for more wine. "Though that brings up another point – Alex's wedding."
"What about it?"
"I need a date."
She goes very still. "No."
"It's perfect PR. Shows we're both mature adults who can handle complicated situations."
"It's insane."
"It's strategic."
"It's asking for trouble."
"It's..." I pause as our entrees arrive. "Consider it part of your contract."
"My contract doesn't include pretending to date you."
"No, but it does include managing Clearwater's public image." I cut into my steak, perfect rare just like always. I’ve always been a man who knows what he wants. "How would it look if a CEO showed up alone?"
"Better than showing up with his ex-fiancé's..." She pauses, searching for the right word.
"Vegas acquisition?" I offer.
"You're asking for a face full of red wine with that word again.”
I laugh. “I’m asking…for a favor.” I lean back, armor firmly in place. "Think about it – Will's going to be there anyway. Wouldn't you rather arrive with someone who actually understands your... market value?"
Her fork pauses halfway to her mouth. "That was almost smooth."
"I have my moments."
"And what exactly would this... arrangement entail?"
"Simple social appearances. Rehearsal dinner, welcome party, ceremony."
"That's a lot of Will interaction."
"That's a lot of chances to show him exactly what he lost."
She sets down her fork. "Your manipulation is showing."
"Is it working?"
"Maybe." She studies me with those too-sharp eyes. "What's in it for you?"
Professional image management. Nothing more. Nothing that could be taken away. "It'll keep my mother from trying to set me up with her yoga instructor's daughter."
"Again?"
"She's very persistent about Grandchildren." The words taste sour. "Apparently she's decided that since she helped break up one family, she should help create another."
Something softens in her expression. "Family expectations. I know those well."
"Your sisters?"
"And my dad." She traces patterns in her wine glass condensation. "He's... they've all given up so much. Sometimes I feel like I owe them..."
"A normal life?"
"Something like that."
We sit in silence for a moment, the rest of the restaurant fading away. It's dangerous, this understanding between us. The kind of danger I haven't allowed myself since?—
"Fine," she says, breaking the moment .
"Fine?"
"I'll be your date." She points her fork at me. "But we need rules."
Boundaries. Now this I understand.
"Such as?"
"No using this to make Will jealous."
“Of course not.”
"No public displays of affection."
"Define public."
She kicks me under the table. "I'm serious."
"So am I." I catch her foot with mine, a tactical move. Nothing more. "We need to be convincing."
"We need to be professional."
"Says the woman playing footsie with her CEO."
She withdraws her foot. "You started it."
"I'm simply maintaining our cover."
"Our nonexistent cover."
"For now." I signal for dessert. “But to be quite honest, for someone who claims to want professional distance, you're still carrying that poker chip."
Her hand goes to her pocket. "It's evidence."
"Of what?"
"Poor impulse control."
"Ouch." But I'm grinning. "And here I thought we had something purely transactional."
"We have something complicated."
"Life's complicated." I lean forward. "Doesn't mean it can't also be profitable."
She meets my eyes, and for a moment the boundaries we just set seem to evaporate.
"Connor..."
"Yes?"
"You're staring again."
"Still assessing." I sit back. "Professional assessment. "
"Right." She checks her watch. "And on that professional note, I should go. Early meeting tomorrow."
"With your other Vegas acquisition?"
"With Senator Thompson." She stands, gathering her things. "Apparently his wife's yacht photos are causing problems again."
"What is it with rich people and boats?"
"I've stopped asking." She hesitates. "Thank you for dinner."
"Thank you for saying yes."
"To dinner or to being your fake date?"
"Both." I stand too. "Though technically, as my temporary business alignment?—"
"Your what now?"
"—you're contractually obligated to attend social functions with me."
"Pretty sure that's not in any contract I signed." She stops. “By the way, thank you.”
“For sending the car that brought me here. For dinner. For…a lot.”
“You’re welcome.” I straighten. “Would you like me to personally escort you home?”
“No.” She shakes her head. “Your hired car is still waiting outside for me.”
“Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow, then. At work.”
She blinks. “Tomorrow.”
The one word hits harder than any of Alex's punches.
Because here's the thing about boundaries: they’re easiest to maintain when you're not constantly fighting the urge to let them slip.
Good thing I don’t make a habit of giving into my urges.
A damn good thing.