19. Control Variables
19
CONTROL VARIABLES
CONNOR
The board meeting is a special kind of torture. Not because of the projections or my father's pointed comments about "focus" and "priorities." Not even because the CFO keeps showing everyone pictures of his new yacht—which he definitely bought just to compete with mine.
No, it's torture because Ariana's sitting exactly three chairs away, looking perfectly professional in borrowed yoga clothes and an oversized blazer, taking notes like she didn't just spend the night making me question everything I thought I knew about control.
"The cloud optimization numbers," Dad drones on, "show concerning variability..."
I pretend to study the spreadsheet in front of me, but all I can think about is how she felt in my arms. How she looked in morning light. How for one perfect moment, I'd let myself imagine a future where my boundaries weren’t everything.
Then she'd run.
Just like my mother had run. Just like Amanda. Just like everyone eventually runs when shit gets too real .
Could I really blame her, though?
For the last twenty-some-odd years, I’d been the poster boy for emotional unavailability. It was a personality trait that served me well.
Until recently.
"Connor?" Dad’s voice cuts through my spiral. "The Q2 projections?"
"Right here." I pull up the data, CEO mask firmly in place. "As you can see..."
The meeting drags on, numbers blurring together as Seattle's April rain patters against the windows. Ariana takes notes in that precise handwriting of hers, somehow making even borrowed workout clothes look boardroom-appropriate.
She doesn't look at me once.
"Moving on to PR considerations," Dad says, and finally, finally she has to engage.
"Social sentiment remains strong going into Clearwater’s IPO,” she reports, all cool professionalism. "Though we should discuss the reality show situation..."
My coffee cup slips, nearly spilling across the projections.
"The what now?" Dad’s eyes narrow.
"A marketing stunt," Ariana says smoothly. "Several tech CEOs were approached about a reality show concept. We declined, of course."
"Of course," I echo, but something in my chest tightens.
Because she's doing it again. Taking control. Handling everything. Making my mess disappear like it never happened.
Like we never happened.
The meeting finally ends, board members filing out while discussing lunch reservations and yacht accessories. I start to follow, but my dad catches my arm.
"A word?"
Ariana pauses in the doorway, then keeps walking. Professional distance indeed .
"The PR executive," Dad says once we're alone. "She's becoming a distraction."
"She's doing her job."
"Is she?" He studies me too carefully. "Because the Connor I know doesn't miss projections. Doesn't come to meetings looking like he spent the night..."
"Careful. Whatever you're implying?—"
"I'm implying that you're losing focus." He straightens his tie. "Just like your brother did before?—"
"Don't." The word comes out sharp enough to cut. "Don't you dare use him against me."
"I'm trying to protect you."
"No, you're trying to control me." I gather my things. "And I'm not James. I never was."
I leave him there, stalking through Clearwater's halls like I can outrun the weight of expectations. Of comparisons. Of everything I'm supposed to be.
The elevator opens just as I reach it, revealing Ariana deep in conversation with Yasmin.
"—and then he tried to recruit the entire dialysis center," she's saying. "Something about protein powder changing lives..."
"Your father does understand that multilevel marketing is basically a pyramid scheme, right?" Yasmin asks.
"Bold of you to assume he understands anything about marketing." Ariana sighs. “His PowerPoint did have surprisingly good clip art..."
They both freeze when they see me.
"Mr. Reeves." Yasmin recovers first. "The venture capital meeting is in ten minutes."
"Cancel it."
They blink at me.
"Sir? "
"Cancel everything." I step into the elevator. "I need to handle something."
"Connor..." Ariana starts.
“Ms. Bristol, thank you for the update in the meeting. Now, if you’ll excuse me…”
The doors close on her expression, and something in my chest twists.
I make it to my private floor in record time, stripping off my tie like it's strangling me. Rain streams down the windows now, matching my mood, and for the first time in years, I let myself really look at what I've built.
The perfect office. The perfect view. The perfect illusion of my independence from everything.
All of it empty.
My phone buzzes:
GRAYSON: Dude
GRAYSON: We gotta talk about the bachelor party. We’re split between Vegas and Monaco. Could our old asses be anymore of a cliché?
GRAYSON: Also, your mom called
GRAYSON: Something about a "chakra cleansing ceremony" for the IPO?
I ignore him, moving to the window where I can just see my reflection. Gray-blue eyes, silver-streaked hair, the face of someone who's spent his whole life trying to be what everyone else needs.
Perfect son. Perfect CEO. Perfect everything.
Except...
Except Ariana never required perfect from me. She only seemed to want real. Genuine. Everything I'm terrified to be.
Because the last time I was real—really myself, really vulnerable—my mother left. The love of my teenaged life married my best friend. My brother died. And my entire world fell apart .
So I built a new one. One I could barricade myself inside.
But now...
Now there's a woman who makes me want to tear it all down.
A woman who runs from her own vulnerability while somehow making me embrace mine. Who handles everyone's chaos while drowning in her own.
And I let her walk away.
My phone buzzes again:
ALEX: So
ALEX: About that wedding video
ALEX: The one where you sing about PR crisis management being the new way to say I love you?
ALEX: How’s about including a rendition at the bachelor party?
ALEX: Hypothetically speaking
For fuck’s sake…
Because that's exactly what I need right now. More confusion. More unexpected. More…
My security panel beeps.
I turn to find Ariana standing in my doorway, still in borrowed yoga clothes and an oversized blazer, looking like everything I've ever wanted and everything I'm terrified to lose.
“So, your father," she says carefully, "is kind of an ass."
A laugh escapes before I can stop it. "What gave it away?"
"So... James," she says carefully.
I go still.
"I heard you and your father talking about him," she continues. "Not just now. At the gala, too. You never mention him. And I don’t—" She exhales sharply. "I don’t know who he is."
For a second, I think about deflecting. About making a joke or changing the subject. But she’s looking at me with those steady, warm brown eyes, and suddenly, the words are there, waiting to spill over .
My throat goes dry the way it always does when it comes to him. I clear my throat, suddenly needing a sip of water. Or whiskey.
"James was my brother.” My voice is a rasp that barely leaves my mouth. "The perfect son. The golden boy. He was supposed to do everything—run the company, make our father proud. And he did. Until the night he didn’t."
Ariana doesn't move. Doesn't speak. Just listens.
"His girlfriend broke up with him. He went out drinking. Wrapped his car around a tree." I force a breath. "And just like that, he was gone."
The room feels heavier, like gravity has doubled.
"I was in college," I go on. "And suddenly, I wasn’t just the second son anymore. I was the only one. And my father made sure I never forgot it. That’s why he—" I stop myself. Shaking my head. "It doesn’t matter."
"It does." Her voice is soft. "It matters."
I look at her then, really look at her, and there’s something in her eyes—something tight and raw and aching. Something I recognize.
"When I was sixteen," she starts, voice faltering. "I lost someone too."
Her fingers tighten on the edge of her blazer.
I step closer, instinct taking over. "Ariana..."
She blinks hard, looking up at me. "I still remember what it was like, watching someone you love disappear in pieces. Trying so hard to hold on, even when they don’t know who you are anymore."
She swallows, and for the first time since I’ve met her, she looks completely, devastatingly vulnerable.
The elevator beeps.
"I should’ve done more," she whispers. "I should’ve—" Her breath catches. "Connor..."
"Stay. "
"What?"
"Stay." I pull her closer. "Let me order lunch. Let me help with your dad's protein powder empire. Let me..."
"Let you what?"
Love you, I think. Let me love you.
But before I can answer, the elevator beeps again.
"Connor?" My mother's voice rings out. "Darling, I brought healing crystals for the IPO! And your father said something about inappropriate workplace relationships..."
Ariana's eyes go wide. "Is that?—"
"Hide."
"What?"
"Hide!" I push her toward my bedroom. "Unless you want a two-hour lecture about aligning your chakras..."
“Ryland Connor Reeves!” Mom calls. "These crystals won't charge themselves!"
Ariana ducks into the bedroom just as my mother appears, arms full of what appears to be several thousand dollars' worth of rocks.
"There you are!" She beams. "Now, about your energy centers..."
I glance at the bedroom door, where I swear I can hear muffled laughter.
Professional distance is definitely overrated.