THIRTY
Levi
“And Cahill?” I snap, a little too harshly for a winding down, Friday evening.
“He’s on your side,” Jasper reassures me before throwing a cautious glance toward Ronald, my VP of Operations. “For the most part.”
I sigh and rub my eyes so roughly that my headache loosens its grip for a fraction of a second.
“I need both Cahill and Huxley for this to work, Jasper.”
“And I’ve already talked to Benjamin Huxley, Levi,” Taewon’s voice comes through the conference room speakers. “We’ve got nine of the major stakeholders. You’ve got this.”
Sniffing hard, I nod reluctantly. “Then it’s settled. I’ll resign next week. Ronald and Daniel can divide the workload.”
Ronald swallows hard and looks around the room warily. “Are you sure? This is… risky. I can’t promise the fort will still be standing, Levi. Acting CEO won’t give me enough authority. You know that.”
“I know,” I mumble.
Every word is weighed down by so much uncertainty that I can barely tell where the line between calculated risk and outright negligence begins.
Taewon is fully on my side and relentlessly optimistic. Ronald, meanwhile, keeps presenting the vulnerabilities and worst-case scenarios that make me question my own sanity.
And Jasper?
As the Astors’ lawyer, he remains frustratingly diplomatic. Half the time, his advice doesn’t steer me in any direction at all.
The decision rests entirely on my shoulders.
For weeks now, I’ve felt like I’m drowning. The risk assessments. The contingency plans. The mitigation strategies for what might be the most dangerous move of my career—and for the company with over five thousand employees.
But I can’t get rid of the nightmarish possibilities. They’ve kept me awake through every hour of every night.
Not that sleep would come easily anyway. Because exhaustion has given me a front-row seat to Cece’s pathologically insane sleep schedule.
Even when I go to bed, she’s never beside me.
And when I wake up, she’s usually stumbling back toward the bedroom, bleary-eyed and distant, looking so exhausted that I no longer have the heart to question her.
Over the past few days, she’s started working from home again.
Wentworth Group was more than happy to have her back after her “vacation”, but now she works from sometime in the afternoon until well past midnight.
It’s almost as though she’s avoiding me.
At this point, we’re barely roommates who happen to share the same apartment and occasionally cross paths.
How the hell did it only take a month for everything to fall apart so completely?
How is our relationship—our love—eroding this quickly when neither of us can seem to catch a break?
Every time another article appears online, she drops whatever she’s doing to read it. And every single time, my heart sinks when I see the practiced blankness she forces onto her face whenever something hurts her.
She’s lost weight now, too. And the difference is stark against her shorter hair. The adorable pixie that she religiously maintained has been cut back into that sharp style, tapering down to almost a buzz along the sides.
Every time I look at it, I want to cry.
Not because she isn’t beautiful.
She is. She always will be.
The haircut itself is tasteful. Elegant, even.
But the reason behind it lodges itself so deep inside my chest that it settles right beside the guilt already living there.
I’m the reason her life spun into this tailspin. I’m the reason she abandoned the routines that once kept her grounded.
Her carefully crafted life is dismantling itself right in front of us, and all I can do is watch while she slowly wrecks herself from the inside out.
A few days ago, I brought up her portfolio again.
This time, though, she didn’t roll her eyes or snap at me. Instead, she simply shrugged. “I rearranged my funds from the incorporation I own with Sebastian.”
I blinked. “What?”
“He helped me remain anonymous when I sold my SaaS model after my MBA,” she explained flatly. “So I balanced my personal portfolio and added twenty million to it.”
I stared at her, completely stunned.
Was she talking about the program she built for her thesis?
Wait. She had a separate corporation? Was that even possible without affecting her personal portfolio?
Wouldn’t it be flagged during taxation? Wouldn’t there be reporting requirements?
The questions never made it past my throat. Not when she had been staring at me with that same hollow expression, as though she genuinely believed I somehow understood the bizarre revelation she’d casually dropped into the middle of a random Wednesday afternoon.
“Does that work?” she asked. “My portfolio won’t go under five. That much I can guarantee.”
And when she realized I became entirely incapable of forming a response, she’d simply turned around and left.
Lately, all my memories with Cece seem to sharpen the persistent ache in my heart. Especially when I know she’s slowly getting beyond my reach, lost to a version she’s discovering herself.
‘Which Cece?’
Her defeated question rings in my head, day in, day out.
Shaking my head, I force myself to focus on the task at hand. “Alright. Names.” I rub a tired hand over my face before cracking my neck to gain back some level of control.
This is what the last few weeks have been about. And I want us locked in tight.
Jasper sighs. “Again?”
Ronald waves him off quickly, knowing too well that I need this. “Benjamin Huxley, Grant Tremblay, Monica Chaturvedi. Taewon already has a handle on them. They’re all remote, so I’m glad he was able to get a hold of them.”
I nod. That’s three.
Even with the 27.8% shares landing under my name after my parents’ indictment, I’m walking a little too close to the edge to get voted back in.
“Then we have Ryan and Simran Gauthier,” Jasper continues. “We got a word from Simran that she’d vote in your favor. Her husband will follow suit.”
Five.
“Now, Daniel Penner and Christa Jennings have the highest sway power here,” Ronald says stiffly. “I’m a little worried about Christa influencing her posse, which can amount to at least six votes against you. If she decides, of course.”
So, seven in my favor. Or maybe six against me.
Fuck.
“I don’t think she will,” I mumble, frowning. “Cece talked to her a few weeks ago. They’re… tight—almost. Her daughter goes to Smith, just like Vivienne.”
Ronald shrugs. “I’m almost sure she’s on your side, Levi. But nothing is one hundred percent.”
I sigh. “And the last two? Isaac Lafferty and—”
“Namrata Agrawal,” Ronaldo says. “They’re both pretty much on board. But I’m concerned that Isaac won’t be available for the voting. He’s… I heard he’s facing some health issues.”
I straighten up. “So we’ve got six for sure. Two who are iffy. And one who might be a no-show?”
“And a tenth, who’s your ace, Levi,” Taewon chimes in, and I roll my eyes.
“We didn’t forget that massive percentage of yours, Mr. Choi,” Jasper says, smirking.
“Oh, it’s massive, alright,” he mutters almost imperceptibly.
Ronald snorts despite the situation, but remains silent.
“And the smaller holders?” I finally ask.
Ronald immediately starts scrolling through the tabs he has open on his laptop.
“We’ve got a handful of unknowns sitting below the one-percent threshold but above the minimum voting requirement.
Individually, they don’t matter much, but collectively they’re worth paying attention to.
We can work through them until you… resign. ”
I give him a stiff nod. “Any proxies filed?”
“A few,” Jasper answers. “Not enough to move the needle.”
Astor Holdings’ voting structure has never been particularly simple. Most of our institutional investors don’t hold enough concentrated voting power to dictate outcomes outright.
But during a contested leadership vote, every percentage point matters. Every single one. Especially when the person being voted on is me.
“Who are we talking about?” I ask.
Ronald immediately starts scanning the list.
“Spencer Longford. Eric Matsuda. Harshita Nair. Ronan Hayden. Abigail Burke… and a few others. All new additions of the past year. So they’re yet to attend any kind of annual meetings.”
“Any indication they’ll submit proxy votes?”
He shrugs, shaking his head. There’s no answer to that question. Not yet anyway.
I exhale heavily. “Then we… assume they’re inactive.”
“That’s the safest assumption,” Ronald agrees. “The problem is that if this turns into a headline event—and let’s be honest, it already has—they might suddenly become interested.”
Great. Exactly what I needed.
More variables.
More uncertainty.
More people deciding whether Astor Holdings survives another year without destabilization.
Something clicks then.
“Any activist funds sniffing around?” I ask Jasper.
“Nothing significant,” Jasper says. “A few inquiries, but nobody is accumulating enough shares to worry me.”
“For now,” Ronald mutters.
I shoot him a look.
He shrugs unapologetically.
“What? You hired me to worry.”
“Unfortunately.”
That earns a few tired chuckles around the room. Even Taewon laughs through the speaker.
“You’ll be fine, Levi.”
I stare at the conference table.
Maybe.
Maybe not.
The truth is, I don’t know anymore. The only thing I do know is that I cannot back out now. Not after everything. Not after what this clause has done to Cece. To us.
I lean back in my chair and stare at the ceiling. Whether I remain President of Astor Holdings or not, I won’t regret this decision.
This clause needs to die. It should’ve died years ago. Hell, it shouldn’t have existed in the first place.
The fact that this manipulative piece of my parents’ machinations has managed to worm its way into my relationship, my company, and every aspect of my future is infuriating enough.
The fact that it hurt Cece is unforgivable.
Even if I succeed in winning over my shareholders.
Even if they vote me back in.
Even if the market recovers enough for us to remove the taint my parents left.
None of that changes what happened.
Because somewhere along the way, Cece attached meaning to my decision. She thinks I’m removing the clause because of a reason I, unfortunately, planted in her head.
Because Cece thinks she’s a placeholder.
Because I’m preparing for someone else.
The thought almost makes my skin break into hives. The unrelenting urgency of this situation is juxtaposed with the helpless irresolution.
There’s no right decision anymore. Just the less painful one.
But feelings don’t care about facts. And now I’ll spend the rest of my life proving it. Because somewhere beneath all that anger and hurt and bitterness, I know she’s still there.
My Cece.
The woman who once looked at me with quiet certainty, yet tremulous trust.
I finally end the meeting a little after ten-thirty. After what seems like a million run-throughs of the same exact risk-tolerant scenarios.
By the time I leave Astor Tower, answer two more calls from legal, and fight my way through Vancouver traffic, it’s nearly eleven-thirty when I step into my penthouse. “Cece?”
Silence greets me when I half expected her to stick to her fragile, new routine.
My stomach immediately drops. I toss my keys onto the console table and head farther inside.
The living room is dark. The kitchen is empty. Even the lack of an open whiskey bottle makes my chest tighten.
“Baby?” I try again, inching toward the bedroom.
Yet no light spills from the half-open door. All while silence thickens.
A hot knot of dread curls low in my gut. For a split second, my brain does what it always does now.
It catastrophizes.
I see twisted metal. A shattered windshield. Her tiny car wrapped around a tree somewhere in vast Greater Vancouver.
My breathing catches.
No.
No, no, no.
Jesus Christ.
I yank my phone out and immediately dial Amanda. Forcing myself not to spiral into worst-case scenarios.
The guilt hits me halfway through the second ring.
It’s nearly midnight. Her PA shouldn’t have to deal with this. Still, this saint of a woman answers. “Mr. Astor?”
“Amanda. Sorry. Sorry, I know it’s late.”
Concern immediately sharpens her voice. “Is everything okay?”
“I—uh—don’t know.”
The admission sounds pathetic even to me.
I scrub a hand over my face. “Do you know where Cece is?”
That one-second pause is enough to heighten my panic.
“No, I’m sorry.”
Fuck.
“She left the office hours ago,” she says, her voice cracking with sleep.
“She went in today?”
“Yeah. Came in around noon.”
That catches me off guard. Then she adds, “She was actually here most of the afternoon.”
Most of the afternoon. A rare occurrence lately. Cece hadn’t been going to the Wentworth office. Not for days since she resumed work.
I thank her and hang up before she can hear how badly my voice is close to splintering.
Then I chastise myself for forgetting that we’ve shared our location with each other, and I immediately open Find My.
Please.
Please don’t have disabled it.
Please don’t have turned it off in the mere weeks we fell apart.
The app loads. For one horrible second, nothing happens. Then her location appears.
Relief crashes into me hard until I actually see where she is.
Gastown.
My pulse immediately spikes again.
The little thumbnail hovers near Water Street.
Downtown. At nearly midnight. On a Friday night.
“What the fuck are you doing there, baby?”
I don’t bother changing out of my suit. I don’t bother grabbing anything except my keys from the entry console. The moment the elevator doors open, I’m already moving.
Because whatever Cece is doing in Gastown at this hour, every instinct I have tells me I need to get to her.