Chapter 13
Chapter
Thirteen
CHRISTIAN
She walks away. Sophie Winters—the woman I've pursued with single-minded determination, the woman who's occupied my thoughts for weeks, the woman I'm falling for against all logic and precedent—simply turns and walks out the door.
And for perhaps the first time in my adult life, I'm frozen in place, unable to immediately act, to control, to command.
The diamond ornament digs into my palm where I'm clutching it too tightly, its edges sharp against my skin.
Physical pain that barely registers compared to the unfamiliar ache spreading through my chest as I watch her disappearing figure through the glass doors.
"Mr. Hawthorne?" The doorman's voice breaks through my stunned immobility. "Are you all right, sir?"
The question snaps me back to reality. I stride toward the exit, shoving the ornament into my pocket. "Call my car. Now."
But as I reach the revolving door, I see a group of men in suits approaching the entrance—the board members arriving for our quarterly review meeting.
A meeting I personally scheduled, that cannot proceed without me, that involves decisions worth billions to Hawthorne Enterprises and its shareholders.
A meeting that suddenly means absolutely nothing compared to finding Sophie.
"Christian!" Harold Blackwell, the board chairman, greets me as they enter. "Unusual to find you in the lobby. Not escaping before our meeting, are you?" He laughs at his own joke, oblivious to my state of mind.
"Family emergency," I lie without hesitation. "I need to—"
"Nonsense," Harold interrupts, clapping a hand on my shoulder. "Whatever it is can wait an hour. The Munich team is conferenced in already. The London office has adjusted their schedules. We need to make decisions about the European expansion today."
The European expansion. The very thing Sophie overheard about. The thing I failed to mention to her, not because I was hiding it but because it seemed irrelevant to what was developing between us—a business possibility, not a certainty, certainly not a priority over her.
But she doesn't know that. Because I didn't tell her.
"Mr. Hawthorne, your car is on its way," the doorman announces.
Harold's eyebrows rise. "Car? Christian, we're all here now. The meeting—"
"Postpone it," I snap, my tone sharp enough to make Harold blink in surprise.
"We can't postpone," he protests. "The European teams have been preparing for weeks. The acquisition timeline—"
"I don't care about the timeline," I cut him off, then force myself to moderate my tone. "One hour. Give me one hour to handle this emergency, then we'll proceed."
Harold studies me, clearly debating whether to push back further. Whatever he sees in my expression apparently convinces him. "One hour," he agrees reluctantly. "But we start with or without you after that. Too much is riding on these decisions."
I nod curtly, already turning back to the doorman. "Cancel the car. I'll take mine from the garage."
My phone buzzes as I stride toward the private elevator that will take me to the executive parking level. My assistant, undoubtedly wondering why I'm not in the boardroom. I ignore it, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly as if that might make it arrive faster.
Upstairs, my office sits empty, the board members gathered in the conference room, my assistant frantically trying to explain my delay.
I should care about the impression this makes, about the disruption to carefully laid plans.
I don't. All I can think about is Sophie walking away, her face composed but eyes betraying hurt I put there through my own miscalculation.
My Aston Martin roars to life, the engine's growl matching my internal turmoil as I speed out of the garage.
I call Sophie again, cursing when it goes straight to voicemail.
Again. She's turned off her phone, cut off my access to her.
The realization sends a surge of something dangerously close to panic through me.
I never panic. Ever. Control, calculation, strategic response—these are my hallBens, the foundation of my success. But logic and strategy are failing me now, abandoned for a desperate need to find her, explain, make her understand.
Winter Wishes first. She might have gone back to her shop, her sanctuary. I weave through downtown traffic with reckless disregard for speed limits, running a red light that will undoubtedly result in a ticket. I don't care. Time
Winter Wishes first. She might have gone back to her shop, her sanctuary.
I weave through downtown traffic with reckless disregard for speed limits, running a red light that will undoubtedly result in a ticket.
I don't care. Time matters now in a way it never has before—not in business deals, not in acquisitions, not in the countless negotiations where I've used time pressure to my advantage.
This isn't a negotiation. This is…something I don't have a framework for. Something I've never experienced. The very real possibility of losing someone who matters. Someone who's become essential in ways I didn't recognize until she walked away.
I call her again. Voicemail. Again.
The rational part of my brain—the CEO, the strategist, the man who never makes decisions based on emotion—tries to assert itself.
She's overreacting. She misunderstood. The European expansion is merely a possibility, one of several strategic options being considered.
Even if it proceeds, arrangements could be made.
Private jets, video calls, extended visits.
Sophie could eventually relocate her business, expand to European Benets.
There are solutions, strategies, paths forward.
But beneath this rational calculation runs a current of understanding I can't ignore. Sophie isn't upset about logistics. She's upset about honesty. About trust. About the fact that I claimed her as mine while withholding information that directly impacts any future we might have.
I failed to include her in my planning. Failed to recognize that what I consider a business decision separate from personal matters is, to her, inextricably linked.
Failed to see that my compartmentalized approach to life—business in one box, personal in another—doesn't work when those worlds collide.
When I reach Winter Wishes, I park haphazardly, ignoring the no-parking zone and the resulting honks from other drivers. The shop is busy with holiday customers, but Sophie is nowhere in sight. Her assistant—Lily—spots me immediately, her expression shifting from surprise to wariness.
"Where is she?" I demand, ignoring the curious stares of shoppers.
Lily crosses her arms. "Not here, obviously. And not taking your calls, from what I gather."
"I need to find her," I tell her, the command in my voice automatic. "It's important."
"So is respecting her wishes," Lily counters, unexpectedly firm in the face of my intensity. "Whatever happened between you two, she clearly needs space."
Space. The concept is foreign to me. When I want something, I pursue it without hesitation, without pause. Distance is an obstacle to be eliminated, not respected.
But Sophie isn't a business deal. Isn't an acquisition target. Isn't a problem to be solved through sheer force of will and resources.
My phone buzzes incessantly—my assistant, undoubtedly, informing me that the board is waiting, that decisions need to be made, that millions hang in the balance. I silence it without looking.
"Please," I say to Lily, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. "I need to explain something she misunderstood. Something important."
Lily studies me, skepticism evident. "You mean the Europe thing?"
So Sophie has spoken to her. Recently. "Yes. It's not what she thinks."
"And what does she think?" Lily challenges.
"That I've been pursuing her while planning to leave. That she's temporary. Disposable." The words taste bitter, wrong. So far from the truth it's almost laughable, except there's nothing humorous about the pain in Sophie's eyes when she walked away.
Something in my expression must convince Lily, because her stance softens slightly. "She's not at her apartment either. Already checked."
"Then where?" I press, desperation edging into my voice.
Lily hesitates, then sighs. "Try the bench by the lake in Evergreen Park. Where her grandmother used to take her. She goes there to think sometimes."
I'm moving before she finishes speaking, pausing only to say, "Thank you."
"Don't make me regret it," she calls after me. "Don't hurt her more than you already have."
The warning follows me out the door, settles in my chest like a weight. Hurting Sophie was never my intention. But intentions mean nothing against impact—a business lesson I learned early and should have applied here.
As I drive toward the park, my phone buzzes yet again. This time, I glance at the screen. Harold Blackwell. The meeting. The board. The European expansion that started this entire mess.
I answer, putting it on speaker as I navigate the snowy streets. "Harold."
"Christian, where the hell are you? The Munich team has been waiting for forty-five minutes. The London office is threatening to withdraw their proposal entirely if we don't—"
"Cancel the meeting," I interrupt, the decision crystallizing with sudden clarity. "All of it. The European expansion, the acquisition discussions, the relocation options. Cancel everything."
Silence on the line, so profound I check to ensure the call hasn't dropped.
"Have you lost your mind?" Harold finally sputters. "We've been working on this for over a year. Millions in preparation alone. The projected growth—"
"I don't care," I cut him off again, turning into the park entrance. "None of it matters if I lose her."
"Lose who?" Harold sounds genuinely baffled. "Christian, what is going on?"