THIRTY-FIVE
Levi
ONE MONTH LATER
She hasn’t initiated those words. Hasn’t even said them back yet.
But the sting I thought the absence of those three little words would bring isn’t there.
Because my girlfriend—yes, girlfriend, not fiancée—loves me specifically. In her own specific ways that I realize were already so intricately woven into our relationship. All while I was too foolishly distracted by my own doubts and assumptions to recognize them.
But they’re so clear now that I know what to actually look for. They’ve become etched into my mind, catalogued carefully, and somehow they keep multiplying.
Every day, I discover another one.
She starts a separate cup of coffee for me minutes before my alarm goes off.
The tubs of protein powder in the pantry are arranged according to their expiration dates because she knows I’ll never pay attention to them.
Even the streamlined plan for terminating the Astor-Wentworth merger was executed flawlessly, and I had her to thank for that.
Despite how much it hurt her—us—she still did it.
She even timidly suggested that I join her for one of the therapy sessions she’d resumed attending. The invitation felt like a trembling hand stretched out.
But it also came with a confession that gutted me.
She had stopped going, over three months ago. Right around the time she’d started feeling secure in our relationship. Right around the time I’d first told her I loved her.
The realization sat like a boulder in my chest for days. All those months ago, when she had been settling into the safety of us, believing she finally had something stable to lean on, I was unknowingly setting the stage for the very thing that would yank that trust from right under her.
Since our conversation last month, we’ve had dozens more. Some have been difficult. Some have left us both emotionally exhausted. But every single one has given me a clearer, less foggy window into her mind. And every single one has made me fall harder.
A few weeks ago, she finally met with her family doctor and worked out a titration plan to restart medication.
When I asked how she felt about going back on Seroquel, her hesitation was immediate and understandable. The withdrawal had been brutal on her body, and neither of us was eager to repeat that experience.
The very next day, I suggested she get a second opinion from my family doctor instead. Her clinic has a highly respected mental health service.
Since her referrals came with more recommendations than I could count, Cece agreed.
Dr. Daisy Cheung ultimately started her on a low-dose combination of a mood stabilizer and Abilify. A piece of information Cece wholeheartedly shared with me.
Which was another change. She trusted me enough. At least with this.
It’s only been a few days, so she isn’t entirely sure how she feels about the new treatment plan yet. But she’s hopeful.
And for the first time in months, her real smile is back.
Not all the time.
Not every day.
But often enough that I catch myself staring whenever it appears like the besotted fool I am. Which only makes her smile softer when she notices me.
I’m jolted out of my comforting Cece thoughts when a hand lands firmly on my shoulder.
“It’s time, man,” Taewon says, giving my back a gentle pat.
The weight of his hand forces me to finally look up from the chair I’ve been occupying for the better part of an hour.
My stomach immediately twists.
Right.
This.
Trying to prepare for a potentially disastrous outcome had proven impossible. Every time my thoughts drifted toward the conference hall waiting beyond those doors, my pulse would spike until I could practically hear it in my ears.
So I’d done what always calmed me lately.
I’d thought about Cece.
Unfortunately, that hadn’t exactly helped either this time.
Not when my mind kept replaying the feeling of her beneath my hands this morning.
The heat of her waist under my palms. The coarseness of her buzzed hair when I slid one hand behind her neck and pulled her closer.
The way she’d sighed against my mouth before kissing me back with enough enthusiasm to leave me dizzy for the rest of the day.
My heart somehow manages to beat even faster. Which is ridiculous, especially considering we still haven’t done anything beyond kissing. Not since the night I turned temporarily brainless and forgot to return those three precious little words.
I tell her I love her constantly now.
Every chance I get.
Every damn day.
But the words have become secondary to the actions, and I like it that way.
Then there are times when I remember the terrified look in her eyes when she’d finally forced those words out for me that night—on my insistence. And my heart slices clean in two.
God.
I don’t think I’ll ever forgive myself for making her feel unsafe enough to doubt when they come out of my mouth now. And nearly impossible for her to voice them herself.
“You ready?” Taewon asks quietly.
No. Not even remotely. But I stand anyway. “Let’s get this over with.”
By the time the doors open, every conversation inside abruptly dies.
My gaze sweeps over the room.
Directors.
Major shareholders.
Legal counsel, led by Jasper.
People who collectively hold enough power to alter the course of Astor Holdings in a single afternoon.
Oddly enough, they don’t intimidate me. Maybe they should. Maybe six months ago they would’ve.
But now? Now, I know exactly what waits for me regardless of what happens in this room today.
My Cece.
Whether I walk out as President or as a mere shareholder with nothing but a bruised ego, she’ll still be there.
The realization settles something inside me. Because loving her has already become more rewarding than any title Astor Holdings could ever give me. Any legacy I could ever want to uphold.
I take my seat, and across the room, Ronald catches my eye.
The Interim Co-President gives me a small, supportive nod. He’s been steady throughout this entire nightmare. Managing the fallout with Daniel.
A moment later, he stands, and the room immediately quiets.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” Ronald begins. “Thank you all for attending today’s special election session regarding the office of President of Astor Holdings.
” The familiar corporate cadence of his voice fills the room.
“Per company bylaws, nominations have been closed and verified. Three candidates have accepted nomination and met all eligibility requirements.”
A screen illuminates behind him. Three names appear.
Levi Astor.
Gracelyn Kim.
Matthew Holloway.
My stomach tightens. The composition of this lineup isn’t helpful. But I’m the only one who is almost an internal candidate.
Ronald continues. “As outlined under Article Seven of the Governance Charter, this election will proceed through weighted shareholder voting. Each voting member’s ballot will be weighted according to their eligible voting shares.”
A few heads nod.
Everyone already knows this. Still, procedure matters, I guess.
“Additionally,” Ronald says, glancing briefly toward me, “under conflict-of-interest provisions established by the board following the 1991 governance reforms, any shareholder actively standing as a candidate shall have their voting shares suspended for the duration of this election.”
The statement hangs heavily in the room. Everyone knows what it means.
My 4.6% shares. Gone. The 27.8% I got handed. Gone.
Not counted.
Not mine to use.
For this vote, I might as well own nothing.
Ronald doesn’t miss a beat. “Therefore, Mr. Levi Astor’s shares will not participate in today’s tally.”
A murmur travels through the room before quickly fading.
I glance toward Taewon, his expression unreadable. For once, he isn’t smirking. He’s taking this just as seriously as I am. He has to.
The irony isn’t lost on me.
A year ago, I would’ve walked into this room assuming victory. I would’ve chalked this up as mere formality.
Now I know better.
We have nine locked votes. Or at least that’s what we think we have.
Nine people Taewon and I had spoken to personally. Who had assured me they were on board. Who’d looked me in the eye and promised support today.
But Astor Holdings has been rotting for decades. And rot doesn’t disappear because people make promises. It has the potential to survive in uncertainty.
In fear.
In self-interest.
In last-minute changes.
So while Ronald moves through procedural disclosures, my mind drifts briefly to the conversations that brought us here.
Benjamin Huxley reassuring me over a late-night call.
Christa Jennings making me work for every ounce of her support. Even her posse, according to her, will support me.
Daniel Penner forcing me to justify every risk assessment; his demeanor is that of an interim Co-President that he is.
The Gauthier couple and Monica Chaturvedi sounded exhausted but determined despite their doubts.
Each one is capable of swinging the result. Of changing their mind.
“Voting will now commence.”
The electronic system activates. The tablets lining the tables illuminate across the room. We even have a few remote members logging in.
The next several minutes feel longer than the previous month. Hell, even the last year that has somehow culminated in this exiled outcome for me.
One by one, votes are cast. Verified and locked beyond what my eyes can see.
Thirty minutes later, Ronald receives confirmation from legal counsel that the final tally has been certified. There is nothing left to do but to count and announce. It’s all automated, but manual verification will take another few minutes.
My pulse pounds so hard I can feel it in my throat. My gaze drifts to the members, instinctively looking for her. But she isn’t here. Wasn’t allowed to be here.
Across the room, Ronald’s jaw tightens slightly as he reviews the results. He makes sure not to lift his gaze and pin it on any of the voting members. Or even me.
In the front row, Taewon folds his hands. For the first time since I’ve known him, he looks genuinely nervous. And that’s not a development I’d ever want in our dynamic. Even his role was reduced to a shareholder and nothing else, just like mine.
The room grows impossibly quiet before Ronald lifts his head. And every eye in the conference hall turns toward him. Then, to the screen behind him that showcases the weighted voting table.
The first thing I notice is my ace, Daniel Penner’s name, on top of the table. The largest shareholder, second only to me. The one whose vote held the most power to sway this game.
Next to him is the name I don’t expect. His betrayal disguised as the vote he cast.
Gracelyn Kim
I lost then, didn’t I? But all I do is smile.
‘Calm your heart, Levi.’