Chapter 40 Please, Don’t Disturb
Please, Don't Disturb
August
Chicago looks cleaner in the cold. Brutal and Precise.
Honest in a way summer never is. Glass cuts sharper.
Shadows stretch longer. The skyline slices the clouds like a verdict handed down by God.
Even the traffic moves with intent—each cab, each black SUV carving through the slush like it has somewhere important to be.
I watch it all through the tinted window of the town car, fingers curled around a coffee I haven’t touched.
Steam rises, delicate and pointless, fading before it reaches my face.
The world should feel lighter today.
But it doesn’t.
Three weeks of silence, spin, and smiling through gritted teeth doesn’t disappear just because the noise slows.
Three weeks of headlines dissecting my character like I’m a cautionary tale in cufflinks.
Three weeks of Harlee pretending not to worry, even as she curled into me every night like I was the only quiet thing left.
The car turns onto Michigan Avenue. Emmett’s office is two blocks up, tucked inside a high-rise of mirrored glass and mirrored egos. I can already picture him at the end of a long walnut table, sleeves rolled, folder in hand, muttering strategy like scripture. He hasn’t stopped since the punch.
I respect the hell out of it.
But me?
I’ve been holding my breath for twenty days straight.
Waiting for the axe.
Waiting to become an example.
The elevator opens into a private vestibule—frosted glass doors etched with Chase Hawthorne & Holt LLP in sharp serif lettering.
A receptionist with a sleek bun and oversized tortoiseshell glasses offers a clipped nod as I pass.
To the left, a man in a puffer vest clutches a crumpled speeding ticket.
Near the coffee bar, someone argues quietly with a paralegal about a prenup.
Nothing flashy.
Just money doing what it does best.
I step into the main suite.
Polished concrete floors. Floor-to-ceiling windows. Conference rooms framed in matte black steel and quiet power. No art on the walls—Emmett doesn’t believe in distraction.
The tension in my shoulders doesn’t ease until I see Kelley.
He’s leaning against the glass wall, arms crossed, wearing that slow, lazy grin that only ever means one thing.
We won.
He doesn’t say it. Just nods once—slick, subtle—the kind that says someone blinked. The Buchanan’s flinched. The tide turned.
Emmett stands at the head of the table, papers in hand, tie askew like he’s been up all night. His gaze sweeps the room, then lands on me.
“They dropped it,” he says. “No trial. No formal review. The board votes on reinstatement this morning. First item.”
I exhale.
Finally.
Emmett taps the folder. “Four staff statements. Two donors. One major partner. All anonymous. All specific.”
I raise a brow.
“One of them detailed the entire confrontation,” he adds. “Word for word.”
My jaw tightens. I don’t comment. My mind drifts—back to Harlee’s voice in the dark, the quiet way she holds me when sleep won’t come.
I skim the summary. No criminal charges. Internal sanctions lifted. Reputational risk assessed, mitigated.
That’s what justice looks like when money’s involved.
My phone buzzes the second I finish reading.
The room hums—distant voices beyond frosted glass, climate control whispering overhead, the soft clink of Kelley’s ring against his coffee cup.
Everything sharpens. Like the world snapped into focus the moment that folder hit the table.
I glance at my watch. 11:35 a.m.
When I answer, the number’s unfamiliar.
Which usually means one of two things: a problem or a politician.
“Mr. James.”
Her voice is smooth. Practiced. The kind of voice that’s delivered verdicts across polished mahogany desks for three decades without ever needing to raise its volume.
“Judge Buchanan.”
A pause.
Measured. Intentional.
“My son embarrassed himself.”
Not an apology.
A declaration.
Like the headline has already been written and she’s simply reading it into the record.
I lean back in my chair, the leather creaking quietly under my shoulders, and let the silence stretch just long enough to become uncomfortable.
“He embarrassed our family,” she continues. “That won’t happen again.”
“Glad we agree on something.”
Papers rustle faintly on her end. The muffled acoustics of a private office built to keep the world out and the power in.
“I trust your team has received confirmation no further action will be pursued.”
“We have.”
“And that the board has been informed.”
“They have.”
“Good.” A sharp exhale slips through the receiver. “Let’s consider this an unfortunate detour. Not a reflection of what our professional relationship can still yield.”
There it is.
Not a threat.
Not a favor.
A warning wrapped in silk and passed across the table like a business card.
“He’s being relocated,” she adds. “A program out east. Quiet. Focused on personal growth.”
I stare out the office windows at the skyline for a moment, Chicago glowing in late afternoon haze.
“A wellness retreat?” I ask, dry.
She ignores it completely.
“Off social platforms. Indefinitely.”
I picture it immediately.
Spencer tucked away in some curated compound with rustic wood cabins and carefully photographed redemption. Journaling between PR coaching sessions and staged hikes through pine trees. His last post archived. A new one waiting in the drafts.
Grateful for grace. Learning. Growing.
Disgust curls in the back of my throat.
I swallow it.
“This closes the matter,” she says.
“It does,” I reply, even though we both know it never really will.
She hangs up first.
I sit back, phone still warm in my hand. My coffee’s gone cold on the table.
Kelley snorts. “Berkshires is code for get your son the hell out of sight.”
I take a sip.
Lukewarm.
But the win?
That shit hot enough to make everything that much better.
I set my keys on the entry table, toe off my shoes, and let the door click shut behind me.
Outside, Chicago still moves like it has something to prove.
But in here?
It’s just us.
Even when she’s not standing in front of me, I can feel her in every breath of this place—the soft hum of the fridge, the faint vanilla and cocoa butter that lingers like she owns the air now.
Every detail in this condo has shifted, quietly, without a single conversation.
What used to be mine is now ours. And I’m not in a rush to correct that.
The past three weeks—through all the noise, the doubt, the headlines—she’s been here.
Holding steady.
Not because she had to.
Because she chose to.
Coffee in bed. Her legs tangled in mine like we both needed the anchor.
Dinners that turned into long nights of her spit balling ideas, her brain moving faster than her mouth could catch up.
Me, sitting back, soaking it in—basking in the glow of a woman who doesn’t even know she’s the center of every room she walks into.
While the world spun out, we were building something in here.
Not a defense.
A life.
Her throw blanket’s draped across the couch like in the spot somehow made for her.
Her tea mug’s still by the sink, half-full, cinnamon stick floating lazily.
Her laptop’s open on the counter, cycling through a slideshow.
Photos of her and Wynter in chaotic candids. Her sister and nephew smiling wide. Then—newer ones. Subtle. Quiet.
Harlee in my hoodie, curls loose, grinning at something off-camera.
Us dancing under string lights after that pasta-making class last month.
A photo of me asleep, knocked out during a staycation an hour outside the city.
Every image weaving a life before me—and a life that somehow folded me in.
I’m so deep with this woman, I don’t even know what it looks like on the other side.
And I don’t care to find out.
I cross the living room and sink onto the edge of the couch, elbows on my knees, rubbing a hand down my jaw.
It’s not exhaustion I feel.
It’s something heavier.
Like I’m standing on the edge of the next chapter—and it has her name all over it.
Spencer’s done. The inquiry is done. The headlines will fade.
But what stays?
Her.
The way her fingers dance at the nape of my neck when I’m driving.
The way she performs to an audience of none when she’s cleaning.
The way her chaos gives my otherwise sterile existence substance.
We’ve been living in the shadows—forced into hiding by public scrutiny, prisoners of speculation.
That ends now.
The city’s still moving like it has somewhere to be, but I’m not in a rush to keep up. Not today. I’ve done my rounds—Emmett’s office, the gym, a long drive with no destination. Needed to feel my body move again. To shake the static from three weeks of holding my breath.
A few hours later, she’s made a nest out of the Love Sac when I find her.
Cross-legged, drowned in my hoodie—hood up, sleeves swallowing her hands, glasses sliding down her nose. Laptop open, earbuds in. Typing like she’s about to crack national security.
She’s been dabbling in some online coding class during her downtime. As if she actually has downtime between grad school and work. Even on break, she’s still adding to her arsenal.
In rare form, she’s off today. James Wilde Media is officially shut down for the holidays, which means—for once—we both get a moment to breathe.
She looks up the second I step into the room. One brow lifts.
“So,” she says, pulling out an earbud, “you’re not a criminal after all.”
I toss my jacket over the back of the chair. “Jury’s still out.”
She snorts, glancing back at her screen. “Kelley texted. Said you didn’t gloat. I told him to check your vitals.”
“So you and my best friend are just texting buddies now?”
“I wouldn’t say buddies,” she says, amused. “But he did have me keeping tabs on you through all this. I guess he cares or whatever.”
I cross to her, crouch beside the Sac, and press a kiss to her cheek. “Every now and then, I’m reminded he’s not as immature as he likes everyone to believe.”
“Meh. I’ll believe it when I see it,” she says, smiling.
She closes her laptop. “So, what’s next?”