14. Donovan
DONOVAN
The click of heels against the floor cuts through the morning hum of the Swanson lobby.
Catherine Swanson strides toward the exit, flanked by two private security contractors. She wears a tailored Chanel suit, her chin elevated as if the people commuting around her do not exist.
I step directly into her path, forcing her to halt.
Her guards stop immediately, stepping back and averting their eyes. They answer to the name on the building, and my name signs their paychecks.
"Donovan." Catherine’s pale eyes narrow, a brief flicker of irritation tightening the corners of her mouth. "I am departing for Brooklyn. I have a schedule to maintain."
"Cancel the car,” I state, leaving no room for debate.
"The Fleming woman requires oversight. The logistics department flagged another delay. I will not allow a vendor to humiliate this family by botching the Mother's Day event."
I slip my hands into the pockets of my trousers, maintaining eye contact.
"I am already handling it." I step closer, forcing her to look up. "Her supply chain is a mess. The firm is mismanaging the suspended installations. If you walk into that warehouse, she will use your interference as an excuse to breach the contract. I am auditing the staging personally."
Catherine studies my face. She searches for the weakness she exploited five years ago, looking for the boy she manipulated. She finds nothing.
My private forensic accounting team is currently ripping her offshore financial infrastructure down to the studs.
I am systematically draining the Cayman Islands shell corporation.
I am severing her board influence proxy by proxy, compiling the laundering evidence that will ultimately put her in federal prison.
It takes meticulous, agonizing time to dismantle a Swanson without triggering a public SEC investigation, but she will pay for what she stole.
Every cent. She will pay for separating my family.
"A CEO does not micromanage floral arrangements, Donovan.
" Catherine adjusts the pearls at her throat.
"It is beneath you. Finish this audit rapidly. We must discuss the Wellington girl this weekend. Her family’s pedigree is impeccable, and you require a suitable wife. The board expects a grandson."
The mention of a grandson—while my four-year-old son sits in a Brooklyn brownstone—makes my jaw lock so hard my teeth ache.
"The Gala is my priority," I state flatly. "Stay out of Brooklyn."
I turn my back on the woman who birthed me before she can utter another syllable.
The damp air of the Fleming Botanicals warehouse wraps around me the second I step inside.
The space smells strongly of wet soil and cut stems. Massive, industrial-grade aluminum buckets line the central staging aisle. A chaotic sea of vibrant blue and white blooms waits to be processed.
I walk past the empty administrative desk. My leather shoes scrape against the concrete, tracking a direct path toward the back staging area.
Elisa stands at a long metal prep table.
She wears a tailored, earth-toned canvas jumpsuit, the sleeves pushed up to her elbows. Her thick hair is braided back tightly, defying the humidity of the room. She wields a pair of heavy shears, snapping leaves off thick green stems.
Louisa stands on the opposite side of the table, sorting the processed hydrangeas into hydration buckets, giving logistical commands into a headset.
I stop at the end of the aisle. My feet move forward before I consciously make the decision, drawing me toward her.
I shrug off my suit, leaving it on a nearby chair, and loosen my tie.
I step up to the metal prep table, stopping shoulder-to-shoulder with Elisa. Just being in her space settles the lingering tension in my shoulders from dealing with my mother.
I shrug off my suit jacket, draping the expensive wool over a nearby chair. Slowly, deliberately, I unfasten my platinum cufflinks and roll the sleeves of my crisp white shirt up past my elbows.
I don't interrupt her. I simply pick up a spare pair of heavy shears from the aluminum surface. I grab a thick, wet hydrangea stem from the unprocessed pile, mirroring the exact stripping technique I just watched her use. Snap. Snap. I drop the processed flower into the hydration bucket.
Elisa freezes. Her shears stop mid-air.
"Donovan?" she breathes, turning her head to stare at my hands. "What are you doing?"
"Processing the flowers," I murmur, picking up another stem without looking away from the work. "Your hydration window is closing."
Louisa stops mid-sentence, her jaw clicking shut. She stares at the billionaire CEO currently doing manual labor at her prep table, reaches up to mute her headset, and continues sorting stems without a word.
"Catherine didn't show." Elisa watches me closely. "She called to threaten a site visit today, you know that. The front doors have been unlocked for three hours."
"I stopped her in the lobby of my building." I grab a handful of unprocessed stems, mirroring the stripping technique she just used. "I told her your staging was a mess, and I am personally overseeing the deliverables. She bought the lie. She will not set foot in this borough."
Elisa’s dark eyes scan my face, looking for any trace of deception. "And Derick?"
"She suspects nothing." A fierce, protective instinct tightens my chest. "She knows nothing. I am building the wall to protect our son, Elisa. I promised you."
A violent smack of plastic hitting brick cuts over the whine of the ventilation fans. The warehouse doors crash open.
Heavy work boots pound against the concrete.
Hector.
He storms down the central aisle, ignoring a junior designer scrambling out of his path. He has on a black t-shirt, his broad shoulders pulled back, radiating anger.
He stops near the prep table, locking his eyes on my rolled-up sleeves.
"Get out."
I drop the stems onto the aluminum surface and wipe the damp earth from my palms. I straighten up to face him.
"Hector," Elisa warns firmly. She steps around the table, placing herself between us. "Stand down."
"No." Hector points a thick, dirt-stained finger at my chest, ignoring her command. "He plays house on Saturday, and on Monday he is standing in my warehouse stripping flowers like he owns the damn place. I told you, El. The Swansons consume everything. He is marking his territory."
"I am protecting my family," I state evenly.
Hector scoffs. He steps closer, undeterred by my size.
"Your family? You didn't even know the boy existed a week ago.
Your mother is the reason we spent five years looking over our shoulders.
You don't get to walk in here in a custom shirt and claim ownership over the boy we nearly killed ourselves to protect. "
"Hector, enough." Elisa pushes her hands flat against her brother's chest. "He stopped Catherine from coming today. He is handling her."
"He is a liability!" Hector roars, the sound shaking the glass of the nearby coolers. "He is dragging the exact empire that tried to destroy you right back to our front door! If she finds out about Derick, she will bury us in litigation until that boy is twenty-one."
"I will put her in a federal penitentiary before she ever finds out about him," I reply.
"I am not gambling my nephew's life on the word of a billionaire," Hector spits. He turns to Elisa, his expression hardening into an unforgiving, desperate resolve. "I am shutting it down, El."
Elisa freezes. She lowers her shears. "Shutting what down?"
"The Swanson contract." Hector crosses his massive arms. "I am pulling the logistics fleet. I am canceling the wholesale orders. We are breaching the agreement. I let you sign this contract because I thought you were smart enough to stay away from this man."
"We will lose the firm." Elisa’s voice cracks, her composure slipping. "The penalty clause will bankrupt the operational accounts. We will lose everything we built."
"We keep Derick." Hector’s dark eyes bore into his sister's. "That is the only thing that matters."
"You cannot unilaterally terminate the contract," I interject, calculating the legal maneuver in milliseconds. "Elisa is the sole signatory on the vendor agreement."
Hector turns his glare back to me. A bitter, victorious smirk touches the corner of his mouth.
"Elisa signed the vendor agreement," Hector snarls, tossing his clipboard onto the metal table.
"But I control the Teamsters. I manage the fleet, the loading dock, and every union contractor rigging that ballroom.
You don't leave my family alone, Swanson? I pull the labor. Try building your floating garden without a single truck or pair of hands. We are breaching the contract. You won’t be able to find anyone in such short notice. "
The warehouse falls silent, save for the mechanical hum of the fans.
Hector steps back toward the loading dock. "The trucks won't move. We are done with Swanson Enterprises."