Chapter 14 Unfinished Business
Unfinished Business
August
Ten weeks on the road will do two things to a man: make him grateful for his own bed, and make him forget what day it is unless his calendar screams at him in all caps.
Napa turned into meetings. Meetings turned into planes.
Planes turned into hotels that smell like citrus and money, where everybody calls you sir like it’s both a compliment and a warning.
Kelley and I ran the West Coast circuit like we were collecting stamps.
Seattle. Denver. Phoenix. Houston. Vancouver.
Salt Lake. Decks, dinners, smiles people reserve for tax breaks.
Then I dipped out for the one thing that still resets me the way prayer used to: the school builds. Dirt under my nails. Sweat that means something. Kids laughing like the world hasn’t had time to disappoint them yet. It reminds me why I don’t play small.
Which is how I end up back in Chicago with barely a hundred hours in my own home over two months, walking into James Wilde like I’m returning to a kingdom I barely had time to rule.
Launch season is my second-favorite time of year, right behind our annual charity event in December. That one’s personal. That one has my father’s name stitched into it even if nobody else can see the thread.
So I’m actually in a good mood when I get to the office.
That should’ve been my first warning.
The click of heels cuts across the marble outside my door like a metronome set to corporate panic.
Yvonne leans in, tablet hugged to her chest, suit sharp enough to slice bread. “Mr. James. You’re back.”
“In this building?” I glance up, already smiling. “Call me James.”
She steps in, shoulders squared, built like somebody who used to hit people for sport. “We didn’t think you’d be back until next week.”
“Surprise,” I say. “What’s up?”
She lifts the tablet. “Kelley left his iPad in the kitchen. Asked me to bring it down for the all-hands.”
I blink. “He asked you to fetch it.”
“He said please,” she counters, dead serious, like that changes the felony.
I sigh like a martyr. “Give it here.”
I scroll the slides quickly. Parking updates. Dress code tweaks. Fraternization policy refresh. Then a new note jumps out:
Employees should not access personal email accounts on company devices. Company property may be subject to review.
I snort. “That’s new.”
“HR’s wording,” Yvonne says. “Not mine.”
“Mmhmm.” I grab a sticky note and write two words in block letters: UNIMPRESSIVE. REALLY? I slap it on the iPad.
Yvonne raises both hands immediately. “I want no parts.”
“He’ll know it’s me.”
“I’m still saying it out loud.” She points at the sticky like it’s radioactive. “Also, for the record, I’m only here because Sadie sent me. She said you’ve been gone long enough to start acting like a civilian again.”
I chuckle. “That’s not possible. I was born to be a leader.”
“Sure,” she says dryly. “And I was born Olympic-bound.”
I pause mid-scroll. “Wait. You were serious about that?”
She shrugs like she’s talking about a summer camp. “Rugby qualifiers. Before the injury.”
“And you’ve just been… walking around here casually intimidating everyone with your resume?”
Yvonne’s mouth twitches. “My grandmother raised me. She’d be disappointed if I made it my whole personality.”
The warmth in my chest surprises me. Not pity. Not sympathy. Just… respect. The kind that doesn’t need a speech.
“Alright,” I say, handing the iPad back. “Go deliver that to the menace down the hall. And tell Sadie I am, in fact, still a threat to society.”
Yvonne smirks. “Copy that.”
She turns to leave, then glances back. “Welcome home, James.”
The door clicks shut behind her, and for a brief second, the office feels normal. Like I’m not three missed meals and five time zones deep.
Two minutes later my screen pings.
Kelley: Go fuck yourself.
Me: Took you long enough.
Kelley: Die.
I laugh and head down the hall as the building shifts toward the conference rooms.
Kelley’s door is open. Of course it is.
I lean against the frame. “So whose daughter did you send your dick to this time?”
“Get out,” he mutters, eyes still on his screen.
“I came to grace you with my presence and save you from yourself.”
“You dragged an assistant into our war.”
“You dragged someone's assistant into your email,” I correct.
His jaw tightens like I just kicked his dog. “You’re obsessed.”
“With your downfall? Yes.”
He stands, rolling his sleeves up in that effortless way that makes people forgive him for crimes he hasn’t committed yet. “You ready or you gonna flirt with our staff all day?”
“I wasn’t flirting.”
“August,” he says, deadpan. “You breathe in a woman’s direction and it’s technically a proposal.”
I snort and follow him toward the elevators. “Your ego needs a leash.”
“My ego is a service animal,” he replies. “It provides emotional support to the team.”
We hit the elevator. It dings. We step in with half the floor. People pretend not to listen while absolutely listening.
Kelley leans in anyway. “Also. Charity event. Monte Carlo theme still lives.”
“Still lives,” I repeat. “We don’t even have a venue.”
“I’m working on it,” he says, like he’s working on curing cancer. “My family’s hotel connections are handling the short list. You just have to stop vetoing places because the ceilings aren’t tall enough for your feelings.”
“My feelings require good lighting,” I say. “It’s a documented medical condition.”
“You’re a nightmare,” he says, pleased.
“And you’re bringing twins,” I shoot back.
His grin grows. “It would be disrespectful not to.”
The elevator opens. The conference room is already full. People are still settling. Jackets coming off. Coffee cups shifting. Catering still being set out and organized just beyond the glass.
We slip in like we own the place, because we do, and that still doesn’t stop Sadie from giving us the look she reserves for men who think rules are suggestions.
“Late,” she says.
“This one’s on him,” I tell her, pointing at Kelley.
Sadie sighs, hands me an iPad, and leans close enough to whisper, “HR’s about to start. Please don’t speak until you’ve had caffeine. I’m protecting the company.”
“I’ve had caffeine.” Kelley says
“Then I’m protecting the company from your personality.”
Fair.
We take our seats. The room hums. Slides wait on the screen. Jalena is flipping through her notes at the front.
Kelley leans in and murmurs, dead serious, “If HR goes longer than thirty minutes, my blood sugar drops and I start hallucinating.”
I glance at his wrist. “You’re literally fine.”
“Last time I thought the CFO was a lamp,” he says calmly. “Just warning you.”
I snort. “You did not.”
“I tried to turn him off,” Kelley adds. “Very embarrassing for both of us.”
I lose it.
A full, chest-deep laugh I have to cover with my hand, shoulders shaking, eyes watering.
“Jesus Christ,” I whisper. “You’re unbelievable.”
“That’s what the nurse said,” he replies.
I’m still smiling when someone across the room says, sharp and startled—
“Oh, fuck.”
The air tilts.
And there she is.
Harlee.
Standing in the middle of my company’s quarterly meeting like she didn’t ghost me and leave my life smelling like unfinished sentences.
My body recognizes her before my pride can get its lie together.
Same curls. Same posture. Same instinct to disappear when caught.
Our eyes meet.
Hers widen. Just for a second.
Then she looks away like I don’t exist.
My stomach drops hard enough to feel physical—like an elevator cable snapping inside my chest.
No.
No fucking way.
I don’t move. I don’t react. The conference room hums with quiet productivity—tablets tapping, chairs shifting, someone coughing into their sleeve. I’ve closed eight-figure deals with a smile I didn’t mean.
I can survive one woman.
Inside, every alarm I own starts screaming.
What the hell is she doing here?
The meeting blurs around the edges. My voice keeps going anyway. Tech timelines. Holiday schedules. Expansion metrics.
My mouth does CEO while my mind does math.
How long?
How?
Why?
The air smells faintly like espresso and dry-erase markers. The overhead lights buzz softly. Somebody laughs at something I said and I don’t even know what the joke was.
When it ends, chairs scrape back. Laptops snap shut. People flood toward the exits.
I scan the room.
Nothing.
Of course.
I’m halfway to the doors when a hand catches my arm.
Rebecca.
Auburn bob, sharp smile, five-inch heels clicking like punctuation against the polished floor. Confidence radiates off her like she ordered it custom.
“James,” she says brightly. “Quick thing.”
I keep my face neutral. I keep my tone polite. I keep my eyes from scanning the room like a man looking for a fugitive.
“What’s up, Rebecca?”
“The press junket next week,” she says. “You’re adding an interview, yes?”
“Am I?” I ask, because if I say the wrong word right now I might start speaking in nothing but curse words and lawsuit.
She blinks. “Kelley mentioned—”
“Kelley mentions a lot,” I cut in smoothly. “Send the schedule to Sadie. If there’s an issue, she’ll flag it.”
Rebecca’s smile tightens a notch.
“Of course. Also, HR wants your sign-off on the updated fraternization language.”
Do they. That's a bit ironic considering the whole HR violation that just bolted out of the room.
I nod like my world isn’t currently on fire.
“Sadie.”
Rebecca’s eyes flick across my face, searching for cracks. “Are you alright?”
I smile.
CEO smile.
The one that says everything is fine even if the building is literally smoking.
“I’m great,” I tell her. “Just… reacclimating to being on-site.”
Rebecca hums, unconvinced, but she steps back. “Talk later.”
“Yeah,” I say, already moving.
Because if I stay here one more second, I’m going to lose the thread.
And I don’t lose threads.
I pull them.
Up in my office, the door shuts with a solid, expensive click.
For a moment I just stand there, palm flat against the wood, feeling the faint vibration of footsteps in the hallway outside. My pulse thuds hard in my throat. I drag a slow breath in through my nose, let it out through my teeth.
This shouldn’t rattle me.
I hate that it does.
I cross to the desk, sink into the chair, and wake the screen.
My fingers hover over the keyboard for a beat.
Then I start typing.
To: Virginia Wu
Subject: New Hires
Can you send me the list of new hires, along with the WEF class from the past year?
Thanks — James
I hit send and stare at my inbox like it owes me an explanation.
While I wait, I try to do normal things.
I fail.
I open a document and read the same sentence five times. I pretend to look at budget approvals. I tap my pen until it becomes a weapon.
When the reply finally comes, my pulse jumps anyway.
I open the attachment.
Names. Titles. Start dates.
Then I stop.
Harlee Q. Prince – Junior Accounting Analyst
I stare at her name until the letters feel like they’re vibrating.
“Mierda,” I whisper, because English fails me right on time.
I lean back in my chair, eyes closing for half a beat.
I am fucking pissed.
“?Tú me estás jodiendo?” I murmur to the empty office.
Ten weeks of silence.
“Diez,” I add under my breath, jaw tightening.
A short, humorless exhale.“Así no.”
That’s all I allow myself.
Harlee isn’t a coincidence.
Harlee is payroll.
Harlee is policy.
Harlee is a problem I can’t pretend I didn’t invite into my world.
And now I have to decide if I’m going to handle it like a fucking founder of this company— Or like the man who has spent the past ten weeks trying to forget how her pussy tasted.