27. Sneak Peek #2
And neither do I—because something about her confidence is still in my head when it shouldn’t be.
This woman is going to be a problem.
Grace rises from the chair like she’s been waiting for the order all morning, smoothing her blouse with a calmness I don’t understand. I grab the folder for the board review—half the pages bent from me slamming it down earlier—and push open the glass door.
“Stay close,” I say. “And don’t speak unless spoken to.”
She hums a sound that might be agreement. Or rebellion. It’s impossible to tell.
The hallway buzzes with low-grade panic the moment we step out. Staffers tap furiously at tablets, exchanging whispered updates. A designer rushes past us with a stack of mockups, nearly colliding with Grace.
“Sorry!” he yelps.
Grace smiles at him like he’s not part of a collapsing empire. “No worries.”
I bite back a curse. We don’t have time for sunshine.
We reach the glass double doors of the conference room. Through them, I see the board already seated—twelve people who thrive on my blood pressure spiking. The empty investor chair sits like a taunt.
I turn to Grace. She looks… ready. Curious. Completely unshaken.
“Last chance to reconsider,” I say.
She lifts her chin. “I’m not afraid of a room full of suits.”
“You should be,” I mutter.
But she walks in beside me anyway.
The chatter dies instantly as we enter. A few board members glance at Grace, then at me, silently asking if I’ve lost my mind. I ignore them and take my seat at the head of the table.
“This is Grace Carter,” I say. “She’ll be observing today.”
A murmur ripples across the room. Grace takes the only open chair—next to me. Too close. I can feel the heat of her presence, her steady breathing. She sits with her shoulders back, posture effortlessly confident.
Someone clears his throat. “Mr. Blackwell, before we begin—there’s concern about this morning’s investor withdrawal.”
Concern. The understatement of the century.
I open the folder, flipping to the revised projections. “Yes. I’m aware. We’ll address it.”
Grace leans slightly, scanning the charts with quick, sharp eyes. She doesn’t interrupt, but she tracks every number, every shift in tone. When one board member—a chronic pessimist—starts insinuating the entire launch is at risk, Grace’s breath hitches.
Not fear.
Frustration.
Interesting.
I field questions, redirect panic, crush speculation—each move calculated, practiced, exhausting in a way I can’t afford to show. But the room grows heavier, tension winding through every seat.
Then one of the executives asks, “And who approved bringing in a strategist at this stage?”
The room’s attention snaps to Grace.
Her fingers tighten around the pen she’s been using to take notes. But when she looks up, her expression is poised.
I speak before they can shred her. “That decision was made through HR.”
“Without consulting the board?” someone snaps.
“It was an operational call,” I counter.
A beat of silence.
Then Grace does something I don’t expect.
I should shut her down. I don’t—and that’s the first mistake I make today.
She leans forward, voice calm but strong. “If I may clarify—I’m here to help ensure this launch succeeds. Not to disrupt it.”
Several brows lift.
I shoot her a look—You were told not to speak—but she holds my stare for half a second before returning to the board.
Something sparks across my nerves.
She’s reckless.
But she’s not wrong.
The room shifts, some of the tension loosening at the edges.
And I hate how much I notice it.
Hate how much her presence changes the energy.
Hate that it matters at all.
The meeting drags into a slow, grinding spiral of projections, accusations, and worst-case scenarios. I’ve seen my share of board meltdowns, but this one tastes different. Bitter. Sloppier. Too many moving parts I hadn’t accounted for. Too many watching eyes.
And one pair of them—right beside me—won’t stop tracking every shift in the room.
Grace sits straighter now, shoulders squared, pen still in hand. She’s not writing anymore. She’s absorbing. Analyzing. Her brows pinch every time someone overreacts. Her lips press together when someone suggests cutting the relaunch entirely.
She cares.
And it grates—because caring used to cost me more than I was willing to pay.
I don’t know why that irritates me.
Maybe because caring is a liability. Maybe because I stopped caring a long time ago—at least about things that weren’t numbers, projections, measurable outcomes.
But she—
She feels.
And the room feels different because she’s in it.
When the final slide clicks off and the lights brighten, the board disperses in scattered clusters of tension. A few members linger to whisper to each other, casting suspicious glances our way.
Grace exhales softly. “Well,” she murmurs. “That was… brutal.”
I ignore her and gather my papers, though my grip on the folder is tighter than it needs to be.
One of the board members—a man whose entire personality is pessimism—steps closer. “Mr. Blackwell, we’ll need revised risk assessments by tomorrow morning.”
Of course they will.
“Noted,” I say. My voice is controlled. Always.
When he leaves, the room finally empties. The door clicks shut behind him.
For a moment, we’re alone.
Grace turns to me cautiously. “You handled that well.”
I stare at her. “I didn’t bring you in here to evaluate me.”
She doesn’t shrink. “I wasn’t evaluating. Just… acknowledging.”
There it is again—that softness. That relentless brightness.
It presses against something inside me I don’t want touched.
I move toward the door. “Let’s go. You’ve seen enough.”
But Grace steps forward before I can exit. “Mr. Blackwell—”
I stop. Slowly.
She swallows but doesn’t break eye contact. “Despite the chaos, the data supports your plan. The projections were strong. The investor dropping out doesn’t invalidate the strategy. You’re closer to a successful launch than they let themselves see.”
She doesn’t waver. Firm. Convincing.
A sharp, unwelcome sensation cuts through me.
She adds, softer, “You’re not as outnumbered as you think.”
I swallow once—quick, involuntary—before I can stop myself.
I inhale slowly. Controlled.
I shouldn’t care what she thinks. I don’t need validation from a new hire I didn’t approve.
But for one brief, infuriating second… I do.
I step past her, forcing my voice back to ice. “Don’t get comfortable, Ms. Carter. This isn’t your fight.”
Her reply floats after me, quiet but sure.
“It will be.”
I stop, just for a moment.
Then I walk out—already knowing exactly how this day ends.
Over my dead body.
Grace follows me out of the boardroom, not quietly, not meekly, but with that same steady presence that’s been needling at my composure since the moment she stepped off the elevator.
I can feel her behind me—not close enough to touch, but close enough to disrupt the rhythm of my thoughts.
The hallway is still a storm—staff weaving past with prototypes, tablets flashing with updates, whispered conversations ricocheting off glass.
It’s organized chaos. My territory. A place where I know exactly how to assert control.
Yet for the first time this morning, control feels… compromised.
I stop abruptly outside my office. Grace nearly bumps into me. Nearly.
She catches herself at the last second, one hand landing lightly against the wall for balance. “Warning next time?” she mutters.
I ignore the comment and step inside, tossing the meeting folder onto my desk. The papers scatter. I don’t care.
Grace hovers in the doorway, uncertain for the first time. “Do you want me to wait outside or—?”
“No,” I say—and it comes out harder than I mean it to. “Get in here.”
Her lips part in surprise, but she steps inside.
The moment the door clicks shut behind her, the air shifts—thickens. Too quiet. Too still. It’s the first moment we’ve been alone without the board, the staff, or Carl flapping around like a panicked bird.
Grace shifts her weight. “Look, if you want me to leave—”
“I do,” I cut in. “But HR already made that impossible.”
She folds her arms again, chin tipping up in that maddening way. “So what now?”
I study her—really study her. She doesn’t shrink back. Doesn’t fidget or drop her gaze. She meets my stare with open defiance.
It should irritate me. It does irritate me. But beneath the irritation is a feeling I don’t want to name.
“Now,” I say slowly, “you understand the state of the company you’ve walked into. This launch is falling apart. We’re behind schedule, down a major investor, and under scrutiny from a board that wants blood.”
She nods once. “I saw.”
“You saw a fraction.”
Her voice softens—not with pity, but sincerity. “Then show me the rest. I can help.”
The words land like a pebble in a still lake—small, but the ripples are impossible to ignore.
I take a slow breath. “This isn’t your project, Ms. Carter. You don’t know the team. You don’t know the stakes. You don’t know me.”
“Then let me learn.”
I close my eyes for a beat. One. Two.
Her persistence is a headache waiting to happen. A wildfire in a room full of dry paper.
When I open my eyes, she’s still watching me—calm, steady, annoyingly hopeful.
I step closer. Not enough to touch her, but close enough to make her falter.
Good.
She should feel the weight of this.
“Here’s the truth,” I say quietly. “I don’t want you on this team. I didn’t choose you. I don’t need distractions. And I definitely don’t need someone who walks in acting like she belongs here.”
Her chest rises, steady. “I do belong here.”
Infuriating.
Infuriating… and something else.
A knock on the glass startles us both. Carl pushes the door open halfway, eyes wide and anxious.
“Mr. Blackwell—your one o’clock supplier call is starting now. They say it’s urgent.”
Of course it is.
I drag a hand through my hair. “Fine. I’ll take it.”
Carl nods and vanishes.
Grace straightens. “Should I—?”
“No,” I say. “Sit. You’re observing the whole day.”
She blinks. “All of it?”
“All of it.”
Because if she’s going to be a problem, I need to know exactly what kind.
And because—God help me—I still can’t decide whether I want her gone…
or whether it’s already too late for that.
Ready to see what Damon does next?
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