Chapter 38
THIRTY-EIGHT
Jesse
Ford is still talking.
Just my luck that today is the day my normally precise, to-the-point, waste-no-time CEO brother would decide to circle around his point for close to an hour.
This entire meeting could have been an email.
My leg bounces under the conference table, the constant, rhythmic motion the only thing keeping me from snapping.
Wes is leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes focused. Noah’s flipping a pen between his fingers, tracking Ford’s words, making the occasional note. Normally, I’d be right there with them—locked in, attentive, all business. Today, my attention is elsewhere.
My eyes keep drifting to the clock mounted on the wall behind Ford’s head.
Every second ticks by louder than the last. Down the hall, Madeline is at the shared worktable.
I know exactly where she’ll be—second chair from the window, coffee on her right, hair tucked behind one ear while she works.
The image is so clear it’s like I’m standing right in front of her.
Except I’m not. I’m stuck here in this boardroom.
I need to talk to her.
Not a quick hallway check-in. Not a polite smile across the office. I need her alone, no distractions. I need to be able to look her in the eye and say the things I haven’t been able to find the right words for.
Ford finally pauses, scanning the room like he’s waiting for feedback. I give him nothing. I don’t trust my voice not to betray how badly I want out of this room.
“Got it. Anything else?” Noah asks, mercifully.
Ford hesitates. “No,” he says at last. “That’s it.”
Relief floods me so fast it’s almost dizzying. I push back from the table before anyone can change their mind, chair legs scraping a little too loudly against the floor.
I need to see her.
The last thirty-six hours have been a mess of hospital lights, cycling thoughts, and long ago buried memories.
Through it all, Madeline’s face keeps replaying in my mind.
The hurt she tried to hide, the space I felt opening between us when I didn’t follow her inside.
I told myself it was temporary. That it was necessary. Now it just feels like a mistake.
I head straight for where she should be, but the worktable is empty. I double back to her desk, peering into the break room as I pass in case she’s stopped there for a coffee refill. I circle the entire office, but I don’t find a trace of her.
I make a beeline for Becca and Marco, who are huddled together at his desk.
“Hey,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Where’s Madeline?”
Becca blinks up at me, surprised, then lifts one brow. “Shouldn’t you know?” she says lightly. “You kind of run the place.”
Marco smirks into his coffee.
“I’ve been looking for her,” I continue, ignoring Becca’s remark. “She’s not here.”
“No,” she says slowly. “She took today off.”
“Took it off,” I repeat. “Why?”
Becca shrugs. “Family thing?” Then, like it’s an afterthought, “She flew out this morning.”
My stomach drops.
“Where?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“Bluewater, I think?”
The word lands like a punch.
Bluewater. Her parents. The gala. Elliot. Fuck.
I nod once because my mind is spiralling and that’s all I’m capable of right now.
Becca keeps talking, something about her covering a meeting and Marco picking up Madeline’s afternoon calls, but I don’t hear any of it.
All I can think about is the fact that I should’ve called her last night.
I should’ve said something—anything—instead of letting the space between us grow.
Now she’s gone. She’s on her own, headed straight into the mess I promised I would help her with.
I mumble a thanks and then turn away, my hand curled into a fist at my side, jaw locked so tight it aches. Every worst-case scenario runs like a reel through my head—her parents in her ear, Elliot showing her off like a trophy, Madeline stuck there alone because I wasn’t where I was supposed to be.
Jesus Christ, Jesse. I waited too long. I let myself get too distracted. And now the one person I should have put first is hundreds of miles away.
I head straight to my office. This isn’t the time for regret. I don’t need to replay what I should’ve done or catalog every wrong turn that led me here. None of that helps her. None of that gets me to Madeline.
I already know what I need to do.
I close the door behind me with more force than necessary and then dig out my phone. I don’t sit. I don’t hesitate. My pulse steadies the second the plan clicks into place. I’m not going to overthink it. I’m not going to ask for permission.
I’m going to her.
By the time my feet hit the terminal floor in Bluewater, everything that could’ve gone wrong already has.
Yesterday, there were no flights. Not one.
I’d stood in my office staring at my phone like that might somehow bend reality in my favor.
It didn’t. I booked the first flight out this morning instead.
After getting maybe forty minutes of sleep last night thanks to the adrenaline buzzing beneath my skin all night, I shot out of bed and made the drive to the airport at the crack of dawn.
Then the flight got delayed. Then it was cancelled all together a couple of hours later due to a mechanical issue. I almost lost my mind at the gate.
I managed to get a seat on the next one out, which thankfully took off on time. It touched down one hour before the gala starts, and I pushed my way off the plane and sprinted through the airport like the place was on fire.
Now I’m in the back of a cab, checking my watch every 30 seconds or so.
I pull my phone out again and stare at the screen for what feels like the hundredth time since the plane touched down.
Still no reply. I scroll up to the text I sent to Madeline from the airport back home, the words still raw on the screen.
Me: I’m on my way to Bluewater, Mads. This isn’t how I wanted to apologize, but I need you to know how sorry I am. Don’t go with Elliot tonight. Don’t listen to your parents’ mind games. I’ll explain everything, I swear. Just wait for me.
I exhale then close out the screen right before the car comes to a halt in front of the same hotel I stayed at with Madeline the last time we were here.
Memories of that weekend with her run through my mind.
The mix-up at the front desk and the look on her face when the woman behind the counter told her there was only one room.
The hot tub and the lengths it took to talk her into getting in with me.
The way she looked in her bra and panty set when she finally relented.
That night sleeping next to her and breakfast together the next morning.
I shake it off as I throw cash at the driver and bolt for the hotel doors, shoulder-checking my way inside to where a long line has formed at the front desk.
I strain my neck, trying to see what’s causing the backup.
I groan when I see the family of five that is currently camped out in front of the desk—parents arguing, kids sprawled across the marble floor, luggage strewn everywhere.
The guy behind the desk smiles patiently, typing at a pace that feels deliberately cruel. I drag a hand down my face and glance at my phone again. Still nothing from Madeline. When it’s finally my turn, I rush forward so quickly I nearly collide with the counter.
“Checking in,” I say. “Jesse Winters.”
After tapping at his keyboard for what seems like way longer than necessary, he glances up. “Yes. We have you booked into room 712.”
Relief hits so fast it almost knocks me sideways. “Great. That’s the room I requested.”
He gives a tight, apologetic smile. “As we discussed on the phone, it’s only available for tonight. You’ll need to vacate by 10 a.m.”
“Understood,” I say without hesitation. “That’s fine.”
He slides the key card across the counter. I snatch it up, already turning away.
“Room 712,” he repeats.
“Got it,” I say, already moving toward the elevator.
I stab the button once, then again like that might help.
When the doors finally open, I step inside and pace as it crawls upward, floor by agonizing floor.
I’m out as soon as the elevator arrives at the seventh floor, sprinting down the hall, card shaking in my hand as I swipe it at the door.
The lock clicks and I push it open, tossing my bag on the bed.
Once I’ve changed, I take a quick glance at my reflection in the full-length mirror.
I’m dressed in a crisp white button-down shirt, tux and bowtie.
I run a hand through my hair, exhale hard, and then I’m gone, heart racing.
By the time I step foot in the ballroom, I’m running on nothing but fumes and sheer determination.
Getting into this gala wasn’t luck. It was planning.
A phone call made somewhere over the Rockies with a donation large enough to smooth over any questions got my name added to the guest list. Money talks with a crowd like this and tonight, it opened doors—literally.
And now I’m here, surrounded by big egos in black tie.
The room is massive. Giant chandeliers drip glass, tables are draped in white linen, and waitstaff glide through the space practically unnoticed.
I scan the room, looking for her. My pulse pounds in my ears as I search faces, dresses, familiar silhouettes.
I’ve been playing this scene through my head since yesterday, but nothing could have prepared me for how it feels when my eyes finally land on her.
Madeline, standing in the middle of the crowded room, a glass of champagne in her hand, wearing a dress that looks like it was poured onto her in a deep forest green.
Her red lips are bold against her skin, smoky eyes dulled with sadness she’s trying to hide—all of it makes her more beautiful even than I remember.
And then I see Elliot standing beside her with his hand resting on the small of her back.
My jaw locks.
I cut through the crowd toward them, watching Elliot talk to a group of men in expensive suits.
I can’t hear what they’re saying but the guy is clearly in his element, commanding the attention of the others.
Madeline smiles when she is supposed to, spine stiff.
Her gaze drifts past the group, unfocused and distant like she’s somewhere else entirely.
I’m a few steps away when Madeline’s parents appear at her side, dragging her attention to them. Elliot doesn’t notice, carrying on his conversation, already moving a step away like she is a new accessory he’s finished showing off.
I slow my steps, trying to avoid a scene that I know she would hate, watching as her mother leans in and whispers something. Her lips barely moving thanks to the smile fixed on her face for anyone watching.
I’m close enough to overhear what she’s saying. “Please participate, Madeline. He shouldn’t be carrying the conversation alone.”
“I’m listening,” Madeline says, keeping her face composed.
“Listening isn’t enough,” her father says. “You need to look like you want to be here. You need to play the part.”
“That’s difficult,” Madeline says calmly. “When I don’t want to be here.”
Her mother’s smile cracks for just a second. “Madeline, we have an agreement. We expect you to do what you promised you would.”
“Yes, I know,” she replies, her fingers tightening around her champagne glass as someone collides with my shoulder.
A woman in a cream-colored dress mumbles an apology as she drifts by me in a poof of blonde curls.
When I look back at Madeline, she’s gone.
I spot her just in time to see her walking toward the far end of the room, disappearing behind a wall draped in red and gold.
I don’t hesitate, my body moving toward her before my mind has a chance to think twice.
Slicing through the crowd, I pass clipped laughter and clinking glasses until I reach the bathroom door she just slipped through.
I resist the urge to push through it after it, instead hovering here until she finally comes back out.
Madeline freezes the moment she sees me. Her eyes widen, breath catching like she’s not quite sure I’m real. Before she can say anything, I reach for her wrist and guide her down a hallway and into a quiet recess tucked between towering pillars and velvet-draped walls.
I release her hand when we’re hidden from the crowd, my chest heaving, my gaze locked on her face like I need to make sure she’s still standing in front of me.
“Jesse, what are you doing here?”
“Getting in trouble again,” I say. “I needed to see you.”
Her gaze flicks over me. “How did you even get in?”
“I made a donation.” I raise a brow, adding. “Not to their campaign. I made sure of that. They’re not going to be very happy with me tomorrow when they figure it out.”
Madeline’s shoulders ease a little.
“How are you?” I ask, because I need to know she’s okay before anything else. “Mads, are you okay?”
She hesitates. “I’m okay. How are you? I messaged, but you haven’t talked to me in days.”
The look in her eyes feel worse than anger ever could.
“I’m so sorry, Mads,” I say, my voice laced with regret. “I’m so fucking sorry. I made a mess of this. Of us. My head has been everywhere, but I should have talked to you instead of pulling back. I—”
“How’s your dad?” she asks, cutting me off, concern in her eyes.
The question steadies me and guts me all at once. “He’s still in the ICU. Not much has changed.” I swallow. “I don’t know which way it’s going to go.”
“I’m sorry,” she says quietly. I know she means it.
“I saw you with Elliot in there. Has he said anything to you that you didn’t like? Has he done anything?”
She shakes her head. “No. He’s barely noticed me.”
I smile. “Not possible, Mads. There isn’t a man breathing who wouldn’t notice you.”
“You should go.” She raises her eyes to meet mine, and even in the dim light, the hurt in them is evident. “I only need to be here for a few more hours and then it’ll be over.”
Then she slips past me, moving quickly down the hall, leaving me reeling like she always does.