Chapter Nineteen
Knight Industries
Nathan
T he emergency board meeting drags into its second hour, voices rising and falling around the polished conference table as Knight Industries’ leadership debates the potential fallout from today’s article. I’ve been silent for the past twenty minutes, watching Jonathan handle the concerned questions with the practiced diplomacy that makes him such an effective CEO.
My mind, however, is elsewhere.
The image of Quinn’s face when I accused her haunts me. I remember seeing hurt, anger, and something like resignation in her eyes. As if she’d expected nothing better from me. As though I’d just confirmed her worst assumptions about who I am. And now the memory of her body—how she felt under my hands, how she tasted—mixes with the bitterness of what came after.
“Nathan?” Jonathan’s voice pulls me back to the present. “Your thoughts on the investor concerns?”
All eyes turn to me. I straighten in my chair. “The media coverage won’t impact our third-quarter deliverables,” I state firmly, addressing the actual business concern. “Our development timeline for the security platform remains on schedule, and all pending contracts are proceeding as planned. This personal matter has no bearing on Knight Industries’ operations, capabilities, or financial outlook.”
One of the board members, Eileen Grey, speaks up. “With all due respect, any public scrutiny of leadership creates market uncertainty. Three investors have already called my office before this meeting was even scheduled.”
“Which is why we have a comprehensive media strategy in place,” Jonathan interjects smoothly. “We’re addressing this head-on with an exclusive interview this afternoon that will clarify the facts and redirect the narrative. By tomorrow, this will be old news.”
“And who’s handling this media response?” another board member, Richard Warren, asks, tapping his pen against the long, polished table. “Given the…delicate nature of the situation.”
“We’ve brought in specialized PR support,” I explain, carefully avoiding mentioning Quinn by name. “Someone with extensive experience in high-profile crisis management.”
The board doesn’t need to know about our personal history or my suspicions. What they need is confidence that Knight Industries can weather this storm without operational impact.
“Our primary concern is preventing disruption to business operations,” Jonathan adds. “I’ve already spoken with our top three clients personally to assure them that this has no impact on their projects.”
“And your focus?” Eileen directs this question specifically to Jonathan. “The company needs your full attention, especially with the Ericsson presentation coming up.”
“My personal life has never interfered with my leadership of this company,” Jonathan responds, a hint of steel beneath his professional tone. “That hasn’t changed. My team is fully prepared for Ericsson, and I’ll be leading the presentation as planned.”
The conversation shifts to quarterly projections and upcoming product launches—business as usual. This is why Jonathan excels as CEO. He has redirected their attention back to what actually matters: the company’s performance and future.
My phone vibrates with an incoming text. Quinn. I notice she’s put my number in a group text with Jake, Kiera, and Jonathan.
Sending interview talking points. Focus on authentic relationship, future plans, excitement about wedding and baby. Avoid corporate questions or any questions about Knight Industries. The editor promised final approval on copy.
Professional, focused, and nothing more. I type a brief acknowledgment, conscious of the board members’ attention. Inside, though, my thoughts are anything but brief.
As I set my phone back in my pocket, it vibrates again—this time a private text from Scott.
Update: Article was scheduled for automatic publishing three days ago. Whoever leaked the info did so BEFORE your meeting with Ms. Sanders this morning. Still investigating source.
I stare at the message, my throat suddenly dry. Three days ago. Well before Quinn and I were together in her office. This doesn’t exonerate her completely—she could’ve provided the details earlier, knowing the story would break eventually—but it does complicate my immediate accusations.
The anonymous text I received earlier weighs on my mind: Quinn Sanders will ruin your reputation like she’s done to you before. The wording feels personal, targeted. Someone knows about our history, about my suspicions.
As the meeting wraps up, Jonathan pulls me aside near the windows overlooking downtown Dallas. “Quinn’s arranged the interview with Sarah Reynolds at Dallas Lifestyle . Good history there—Sarah’s fair, and she understands discretion.”
I nod. “Smart choice.”
“I need to know you can work with her on this,” he says quietly, his voice pitched for my ears only. “Whatever’s going on between you two?—”
“It won’t be a problem.” I cut him off. “This is about the company, not personal issues.”
He studies me for a moment, unconvinced. “Is it? Because this morning, Scott told me you requested a full investigation into the NorthStar leak from last year. Seems pretty personal to me.”
Of course he’s on to me. “I’m being thorough.” I want to tell him everything, that I think this is more about Quinn than us, but I don’t have proof. At least not yet. Until then, I can’t say anything unless a theory becomes more plausible.
“You’re reopening old wounds,” he counters. “And I’m starting to wonder why. If you were so certain Quinn betrayed us, why dig into it now?”
His question hits with uncomfortable precision. “Knight Industries deserves to know the truth,” I say instead. “About both leaks.”
Jonathan’s expression softens slightly. “And what if the truth isn’t what you expect? What if Quinn has been innocent all along?”
The possibility sits like lead in my stomach. If Quinn is innocent, then I’ve spent a year punishing her because of nothing more than my own ego and pride. I’ve destroyed what we had, humiliated her publicly, accused her repeatedly. If she does turn out to be innocent, I would be a fool if I believed she’d forgive me, much less take me back.
“Then I’ll have to live with that,” I admit, the words rough in my throat.
My brother puts a hand on my shoulder, squeezing slightly. “When you figure out what you want, don’t wait too long to act on it. Some opportunities don’t come around twice. Take it from someone who’s been there.”
He walks away, leaving me alone with my thoughts and the city sprawled beneath us. I watch him go, then lean on the conference table trying to steady myself. The polished furniture shines against the afternoon glint. I feel uneasy, like my world, compared to everyone else’s, has been, and continues to be, thrown off its axis.
My phone buzzes again—another text from Scott.
Found something interesting. Can we meet ASAP?
I respond immediately.
My office. Ten minutes.
Whatever he’s found has me perk up. I need to know. Because the doubt that has been nibbling at my resolve and has set me on edge has grown into something I can’t ignore anymore. For the first time in a year, I’m choosing to think of other possibilities besides what immediately comes to mind. I’m questioning whether I’ve been wrong about Quinn all along. The theory is weak, but it’s there, stuck at the front of my mind. And I have to see it through.
And if I have been wrong?
The implications make my stomach twist with dread but also something different. Something eerily similar to hope.
A few minutes and a walk back to my office later, I see Scott waiting there, his imposing frame straightening as I enter. Our head of security has the build of someone with a military background, all disciplined movements and watchful eyes. At six-foot-three with broad shoulders, he has clearly put in more time at the gym than Jonathan and I do combined. His tanned skin has the weathered look of someone who’s spent plenty of time outdoors, contrasting with the crisp white of his button-down shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal forearms covered in intricate tattoos. Long story short, he’s a mysterious guy of very few words.
He stands, arranging his laptop and several printouts on my conference table with methodical precision.
“What have you got?” I ask without preamble, closing the door behind me.
“Several things that don’t add up,” he says, gesturing for me to join him. “First, I can confirm that the IP address originated from a café in downtown Dallas, not New Mexico where Quinn claimed to be. But here’s where it gets interesting. The IP address from the NorthStar leak matches Quinn’s computer.”
“Which aligns with my suspicions that she could still be lying,” I point out.
“Except,” Scott continues, tapping his keyboard to bring up a security camera image, “I obtained footage from the cafe’s security system. It took some doing since the place only keeps archive footage for fourteen months, but I managed to get access.”
He turns the screen toward me. The timestamp matches the exact moment the NorthStar information was leaked—down to the minute. The grainy footage shows several people at tables with laptops, but Scott points to a woman in the corner.
“I tracked the specific computer terminal used to access the network when the information was leaked,” he explains. “It was at this table, where we can see a woman with dark hair sitting alone. The café keeps logs of which workstation was used at what time.”
I lean closer, studying the image. “That’s not Quinn,” I say slowly.
“No,” Scott agrees. “I can’t get a clear shot of her face due to the angle, but the physical description you gave me doesn’t seem to match hers.”
“It doesn’t,” I confirm to Scott.
He nods. “It’s not much to go on, I know.”
I pause, taking in the information. He’s right; there isn’t much to go on. Either Quinn hired someone to do this so she could have an alibi, or someone else is pulling the strings.
“There’s more,” Scott continues. “I received an update on the anonymous text you forwarded me. It appears to have been sent from a burner phone, but the language analysis suggests someone with intimate knowledge of both you and Quinn.”
I frown. Just as I’d suspected. “So it could be someone close to us?”
“Possibly,” Scott replies. “There’s still more to investigate, but I wanted to give you the preliminary findings.”
I sink into a chair, my mind racing. “This isn’t enough. We need more.”
“Already on that,” Scott assures me. “But I thought you should know what I’ve found so far.”
“The sooner we can find a smoking gun, the better, regardless of whatever evidence we have. And the same goes for the leak from today,” I say, already moving toward the door. “Let me make a call.”
Outside in the hallway, I lean against the wall, my heart thundering in my ears. I pull out my phone and stare at Quinn’s contact information, my thumb hovering over her name.
What if this is real? What if the idea that she’s innocent is legitimate? Has she been telling the truth all along? While I’ve been punishing her, humiliating her, shutting her out? How could I not see that she was the true victim?
Before I can overthink the situation any further, I dial her number. It rings three times before she answers.
“Nathan?” Her voice is guarded, professional. But the fact she answered my call rather than not picking up surely has to be a good sign. “Everything okay with the talking points?”
“Talking points are fine,” I say, struggling to keep my own voice steady. “I’m actually calling because?—”
I falter.
I might have been wrong.
I’m a jackass.
I was wrong, a jackass, and an asshole.
Different ideas, different sentences, for what to say spill all over the place in my brain, yet all of them seem woefully inadequate. Fuck, an “I’m sorry” wouldn’t even begin to cover it.
“Yes?” she prompts, and I can hear the wariness in her tone.
“We should talk,” I finally manage. “After the interview. There’s something I need to show you.”
There’s a pause on the other end. I can only imagine her weighing her options. She could either be wondering which colorful language to use to tell me to fuck off to hell, or whether to trust me.
“The interview’s at five,” she says finally. “I should be done by six thirty.”
I close my eyes in silent relief. “I’ll meet you at your office then.” The feeling washes over me like a large wave diffusing a fire just as big. “Quinn?—”
“Yes?”
I miss you. I’m sorry.
Words catch in my throat, and almost none are able to come out.
“Thank you,” I say instead. “For helping Jonathan and Kiera. For doing your job despite…everything.”
Another pause, longer this time. “I’m simply doing my job,” she finally says, repeating my words, her voice carefully neutral. “See you at six thirty.”
The line goes dead. I stare at my phone, horrified by the realization that if there turns out to be a bigger conspiracy for what’s going on, I’ll more than likely have to face the possibility there can never be forgiveness for what I’ve done to her. To us.