Chapter 26 #2
I scroll again, slower now. Finance. Banking. Personal wealth management. The Cypress investigation flickers through my mind—not the fallout, but the work itself. Following the money. Watching the truth reveal itself.
That part lit something in me.
Then I stumble across an article—short, sharp, and arresting.
“Wynn, listen to this.” I sit up. “There’s this woman, Zola Sullivan.
She runs EchoHouse. Boutique financial firm out of Burbank.
She focuses on financial literacy for Black women—wealth building, long-term planning, not just damage control.
She still does free workshops in underserved communities.
She was featured in an Oprah magazine piece. ”
She takes my phone, skims. “Locs! Black Girl Magic!” She hands it back. “Yeah. That’s you. Oprah doesn’t spotlight just anybody.”
Her scrolling slows. Brows lifting. “Oh. That’s… actually fire.”
“It’s the kind of work where the numbers mean something,” I say quietly. “Not just profit. Impact.”
She nods. “Sounds like something you should be applying for.”
I glance back at the screen. “They’re not hiring.”
“You should apply anyway.”
“I’d need more experience.”
“Girl, bye. Manifest it.”
“Manifestation doesn’t replace a résumé,” I say.
“Says who?” She shrugs. “You already manage our money every day. Might as well invoice us. And if all else fails? Channel your inner mediocre white man. Confidence on ten, qualifications optional.”
“Our budget is small potatoes compared to what these clients would need,” I argue. “They could hire someone with more than 2 years of experience.”
Before I can finish the thought, she straightens. “What if I hired you?”
I blink. “I’m taking the blunt.”
She snatches it back. “I’m serious. I trust you with my money. All of it.”
I give her a look, but she lifts a hand, stopping me before I can protest. “This isn’t about August. This is about you—and that amazing brain of yours and its ability to block its own blessings.”
The room tilts.
Not fear—weight.
Her livelihood. Her future. Royalties, contracts, taxes, vultures. The kind of money that attracts people who smile while sharpening knives. And the part she didn’t say but didn’t have to: because you won’t screw me over.
That’s what makes my chest tighten.
“This isn’t just spreadsheets,” I say quietly. “This is your life.”
“Exactly,” she says. “And I trust you with it.”
I exhale. “Can I think about it? I mean I am blown away, but I need some time.”
She squeezes my hand. “Take it. I ain’t going anywhere.”
The office hums, but I’m elsewhere. Wynter’s offer loops in my head, equal parts thrilling and terrifying. I chew my cheek, staring at my screen, when a shadow falls across my desk.
“Hey there,” August says.
“Hey yourself,” I reply, blinking through the fog.
“You’re quiet today.”
“What do you mean?”
His glance drops to my phone. “I’ve been texting you, but my messages seem to keep going unread.” He smiles, boyish and charming.
I roll my eyes. “You are so needy,” I say, shaking my head.
“Only when it comes to you,” he murmurs. “Ven acá, then. I miss you.”
His sentence dies as Rebecca appears beside him like a migraine with a blowout.
“James, there you are. I’ve been looking for you. We have a meeting in the Aspen conference room.”
We share a brief look before he straightens, the CEO persona sliding effortlessly back into place as he turns to her. “Rebecca.” He checks his watch. “Are you rushing me?”
“No? I—” she stutters.
I stifle a smile. I’d be lying if I said it didn’t give me a tiny bit of satisfaction watching him check her.
“I’m fully capable of managing my time, Rebecca.”
“I just thought we could grab a moment to discuss the press materials for the Napa Valley project on the way over?” she says.
August exhales, then offers a polite smile. “Sure. Lead the way. Miss Prince, fill me in on those updates later.” He winks at me before escorting Rebecca toward whatever meeting awaits them.
The warmth disappears with him, replaced by clipped syllables and boardroom cadence. Same man. Different mouth.
The second they’re out of earshot, I roll my eyes and immaturely stick my tongue out at her retreating back.
A beat later, Lori rolls her chair from her cubicle into mine. “Bitch,” she says, deadpan, before rolling right back.
I snicker and turn back to my computer.
Later that night, I’m submerged in an aromatherapy bubble bath with August, the water just shy of too hot.
Steam curls lazily around us, thick and scented, softening the edges where our bodies meet.
His arms circle me from behind—firm, unhurried—holding me in a way that feels less like restraint and more like intention.
Candlelight flickers across his face, catching the sharp line of his jaw, the quiet focus in his eyes. Skin breaks the surface of the bubbles where we touch—shoulder to chest, thigh to hip—heat blooming everywhere we connect.
“Now that I’ve fed you,” he murmurs against my ear, voice low, indulgent, “dime, Harlee. Tell me your deepest desires.”
The shiver that runs through me has nothing to do with the water. I laugh softly, tipping my head back against him.
“Desire?” I think for a moment. “A better apartment. More life. A better relationship with my father.” My voice dips. “To see my mom’s face again.”
His grip tightens just slightly.
Grounding.
“Estoy aquí,” he murmurs. I’m here.
I let that settle before I exhale. “But lately… I’ve been wanting something more tangible. Something real.”
“Like what?” His mouth brushes my ear—barely there, but deliberate.
“Changing career paths.”
He stills for half a beat, then I feel the smile against my skin. “That’s great.”
“It is?” I turn just enough to catch his eyes.
He nods, slow, certain. “What made you start thinking about it?”
I tell him about Dr. Abigay. About the moment something shifted. About realizing NASA doesn’t feel like the finish line anymore. That I love numbers—but I want them to matter.
“I don’t know… I’ve really been thinking about personal wealth.
Or finance,” I admit. “I’m not sure which yet.
But I know I’d be happy there.” I let out a small laugh.
“This might sound crazy, but I was even thinking about taking a coding class. I had this idea for a personal wealth tracker—for people who don’t know how to manage their money but can’t afford to pay someone to do it for them…
” I shrug lightly against him. “It’s probably silly. ”
“Nah,” he says immediately, thumb tracing a slow, absent line along my arm. “That’s not silly.”
His voice shifts—more focused now. Intent.
“That’s exactly how it starts. You step outside what’s comfortable, connect the dots differently—that’s where real money lives.” A beat. Softer, but sure. “You’re taking what you already understand and making it useful for people who actually need it. That’s not just smart… that’s scalable.”
His hand settles more firmly at my waist.
“And it sounds like you,” he adds, quieter now. “So I’m not surprised.”
A small smile pulls at my lips.
“Belleza e inteligencia…” he murmurs against my skin. “Mi debilidad.”
I huff a soft laugh. “I didn’t think I’d enjoy James Wilde this much.”
“Because you get to see me every day?” he says, grin warm and unapologetic.
“Cocky much.”
“Working on it,” he murmurs, voice dipping lower. “Keep moving like that and I’ll get there faster.”
A quiet laugh slips out of me, then fades.
“The Cypress situation…” I hesitate. “It changed things for me. Despite everything.”
“I know,” he says, softer now. “That’s why you were right for it.”
The word right lands heavier than it should.
“It doesn’t feel that way.”
He stills completely. “Talk to me.”
“People are whispering. And you’ve been… off.” I swallow. “I think it’s about me. About Kelley.”
A slow breath.
“We disagreed.” Then, quieter, almost to himself, “No fue fácil.”
“Because of me.”
“Yes.”
The truth lands warm and sharp all at once.
“I didn’t want to put that on you.”
“It already is,” I say softly. “Because this is exactly what I was afraid people would think.”
He turns me then—just enough to face him—his hands settling at my waist, steady, sure.
“I promised you discretion,” he says. “And no matter what happens—I can handle this.”
His thumb presses into my hip.
“Te tengo.”
Something in me softens at that.
“Then talk to him,” I say. “For me.”
A beat.
Then, “I will.”
The tension doesn’t disappear after that—it just shifts. Loosens into something quieter. Closer.
Later, when the moment settles, I tell him about Wynter.
“She asked me to manage her finances.”
His brows lift slightly. “That’s big.”
“It feels big,” I admit. “And messy.” A small exhale. “Like… one wrong move and I lose more than just a client.”
A beat.
“Cushy and catastrophic,” I add, softer this time. “At the same time.”
A low hum of understanding moves through his chest. Not quite a laugh.
“That’s not math,” he says. “That’s risk management.”
I tilt my head back just enough to look at him. “So what do you do?”
“With what?”
“When the lines blur,” I say. “When it’s not just business anymore.”
His hand stills at my waist for a second—thinking, not avoiding.
“You decide which one matters more,” he says finally. “And you build around that. Clear lines. Or none at all. But you don’t pretend it’s both.”
That lands.
Because it answers more than I asked.
I nod slowly, settling back into him again, quieter now. “I don’t need the perfect job. I just need the right one for me, and I'll make it perfect.”
His hand tightens at my waist.
Subtle.
Intentional.
He presses a slow kiss to my temple. “Then take the step that’s yours, baby. I support you in whatever season, mi vida.”
The water laps softly around us. Outside this room, things are still complicated. Still unresolved.
But here—wrapped in steam and candlelight and him—I feel steady.
And very aware.
Of the way his body shifts behind me. The way his breath deepens when I speak, when I move—like something in him is tracking me without trying to hide it.
Like he’s not just listening.
He’s feeling me.
His thumb drags once along my hip—slower this time.
Deliberate.
My breath catches before I can stop it.
He notices.
Of course he does.
“Tranquila,” he murmurs against my temple.
It lands differently now.
Not calming.
Claiming.
My eyes close, but I don’t melt—I lean back into him instead, like my body’s already decided something my mind is still catching up to.
His hand shifts—barely.
Enough.
Enough to send heat curling low and steady, impossible to ignore.
And for once…
I don’t overthink it.
I don’t plan it.
I turn.
Slow, deliberate, water shifting around us as I move in his lap, my hands finding his shoulders, then his neck—anchoring myself there.
He stills beneath me.
Not stopping me.
Letting me choose it.
Our eyes meet—close now, breath shared, the air between us gone.
No jokes.
No teasing.
Just that same quiet gravity pulling us together.
I kiss him first.
Soft.
Then deeper.
And when his hands come up—firm at my waist this time, pulling me into him like he’s done waiting—
the rest of the world falls away with it.
Oh no—
I think I’m falling in love with him.