Chapter 19
* * *
Damien
I adjusted my cufflinks in the mirror, the movement precise, mechanical—a ritual for control. Monday mornings always came fast, but this one carried a different weight. Too much gained over the weekend. Too much left unsaid.
In a few hours I’d have to become the other version of myself again.
The executive.
The strategist.
The man who could walk into a boardroom and bury sentiment under logic.
A man pretending the weekend hadn’t rewired the goddamn ground beneath him. Pretending these same fingers hadn’t been in Emma’s hair hours ago. Hadn’t traced the gentle curve of her back, careful as prayer.
Irony: While Emma and I were rebuilding trust, I was walking into a building where trust did not exist. A place where men like Nathan Bell shredded it for sport.
Nathan.
Even thinking his name soured the air.
I’d dealt with plenty of assholes, but Nathan Bell was his own species. Cruel, entitled, smug about it. He hid rot behind charm and called his contempt “banter.” The board laughed with him like he was scripture. Every damn time.
Five years ago, he’d torched a thirty-year marriage for a fling with the housekeeper, left his wife with nothing, and bragged about the prenup at a shareholder dinner. The same men who toasted her absence still called him a genius.
When I started Falkirk, it had been mine—every inch of it.
No partners.
No politics.
Just vision, discipline, work.
Growth changed that.
Acquisitions. Capital.
And capital comes with strings—each one tied to a name like Nathan Bell.
Seven of the nine board members came from those deals—seven people with leverage, history, and Nathan pulling half their threads. I tried to take him down once—built a file thick with witness accounts, HR complaints, midnight testimonies. Nothing stuck. He was too good at polishing rot.
My teeth ground at the memory of Falkirk’s first call with Elion.
The way his tone shifted when Emma spoke.
The smug tilt of his head.
The interruptions.
And then—her name.
Her first name.
Said with false familiarity.
Like it belonged to him.
He had no right to her name.
No right to her—period.
Hell, I barely did. Not yet.
I wanted to shield her. Wanted to tear through every bastard in her way. But she was fire-forged. She didn’t need saving.
But even that didn’t cool the fury—just sharpened it.
I turned it into motion.
By the time I reached my office, the city was just waking—traffic stacking outside, the scent of burnt espresso clinging to the carpet. I sank into my chair, protein bar in one hand, three Post-its stuck to my laptop that I didn’t remember writing.
A light knock broke the rhythm.
“Come in.” I kept skimming emails.
Maria Chen stepped inside—tablet in hand, posture straight, heels clicking once before she stopped, her sharp bob framing eyes that missed nothing. “Mr. Holt.”
“Please. Sit.” I gestured to the chair across from me.
She did—and launched straight into the system-migration report. No filler. No padding. Clean, clinical efficiency. I interrupted once; she didn’t blink. A schematic bloomed on her tablet before I’d finished the question.
That was Maria. No posturing. No diplomatic padding. Just accuracy, distilled and lethal.
“You’ll need to finalize API access with Elion’s CTO by end of day,” she said. “Sequence is outlined in my notes.”
“I saw it. It’s solid.”
Her chin dipped. “They’ll push back.”
“Let me know when they do.”
She nodded once and left—a chill following her out.
By midmorning, I’d barely cleared two emails and a call before Tessa swept in—no knock, as usual.
“Morning,” she said, lowering herself into the armchair with practiced grace. Then her nose wrinkled, twice, and she grimaced. “God, Damien—it smells like paint thinner in here.”
“It’s the new desk,” I explained, gesturing to the glossy walnut surface still gleaming like it had been varnished an hour ago. “We can switch rooms if you want.” I started to rise.
She waved me off, nose pinched between two fingers. “No, it’s fine,” she managed through the grip. “Just—give me a second.”
Her face went pale, a thin sheen of sweat breaking across her brow. She rode it out—jaw tight, breaths measured—until her body remembered how to function. “Sorry.”
“Don’t apologize,” I said, mouth twitching. “I should apologize for fumigating you with varnish.”
A small laugh, quickly tucked away. She reached into her bag. “All right. Let’s get to it.”
She slid the first slide across the desk—Falkirk’s alignment against Elion’s proposal. Her work was immaculate: color-coded, annotated, efficient. She flagged three integration risks before I’d finished reading, contingencies already vetted by legal.
Mid-discussion, her hand drifted to the curve of her stomach—so casual I almost missed it. The sharp edge in the room softened. Tessa, relentless strategist and unflappable operator, was also a soon-to-be mother, fighting through nausea while running circles around most of my team.
I respected the hell out of that.
“I heard sour candy helps.” I dug through my desk and came up with a green Jolly Rancher. “Not much, but it’s something.”
Her expression brightened. “Nice. Green apple.” She tore the wrapper with her teeth.
“You’re the only person I’ve met who actually likes that flavor.”
“Good. More for me.” She popped it into her mouth, smirking.
“You’re welcome to the whole drawer if you get Nathan to cancel our meeting today.” I cracked the drawer so the stash of candy glinted under the light like an unspoken bribe.
She groaned, leaning back. “Not sure the candy will help,” she muttered. Then, after a pause: “Just a heads-up—he’s in a particular mood today.”
“Great,” I muttered.
Tessa pushed to her feet. “Try not to kill him before lunch,” she said, wry amusement tugging at her lips as she headed for the door.
“No promises.”
Late morning slipped into early afternoon. I cleared a few more emails, made two quick calls, and by the time the clock hit 12:40 p.m. my focus was gone. Numbers blurred together—sterile and lifeless.
Space. Air. My body craved both.
Lucio’s called my name—the same pizza as last night, the same comfort. Only two blocks away; the walk was quick, the memory of Emma’s laughter tangled with the smell of tomato sauce already waiting for me.
Lucio himself, an elderly man straight from the streets of Naples, lifted a hand the moment I walked in. “The usual?”
“Yes, please.” I loosened my tie and took my corner booth. Worn red-leather seats held together with duct tape and dreams, a dinged-up table, crayon stains spattered across it from too many family meals.
The place buzzed with midday chatter—cutlery clinking, laughter spilling between tables, garlic and tomato thick in the air. When Lucio set the pizza in front of me, he grinned. “Two days in a row, huh? You eat here a lot, but usually not back-to-back.”
“Had company last night. Had to show them the best pizza in town.” Appreciation bled through.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved me off. “Flattery won’t get you free pizza, Holt.”
“Believe it or not, this is the second time in seventy-two hours I’ve been accused of flattery for personal gain.” I laughed.
“I’m sure.” He turned to another customer. “You’re a weasel.”
The insult carried no weight—only the teasing ease of people who’d broken heavily basiled bread together.
The first bite burned the roof of my mouth, but I didn’t care. It was perfect.
Habit made me reach for my phone before I could stop myself.
Emma: My back feels so much better today!
I smiled, my response already forming in my mind.
Me: Glad to hear it. I’ll send an invoice for my services later.
Her reply landed before I could set the phone down.
Emma: I’ll give you two dollars tonight and call it settled.
I grinned.
Me: Two dollars and one more text from you, and we’ll call it even.
No response.
The black screen reflected the light from above as I set it beside my plate and took another bite. The crisp crust and molten cheese filled my mouth, but it couldn’t curb the uncertainty of her silence.
By the time I returned to Falkirk, the building had slipped back into its sterile hum.
Two more calls. One more report. My inbox—clear. On paper, I was productive. In truth, I was counting down.
My gaze flicked to the corner of the screen—1:56 p.m.
The door crashed open seconds later. Nathan Bell, early as always when he smelled blood.
He never knocked—like Tessa—but without an ounce of her grace. The door smacked the wall as he lumbered inside and threw into the armchair opposite me. The wood groaned beneath him. Sweat beaded along his receding hairline, his shirt buttons threatening to surrender.
“You’re early.” I glanced at the clock.
He sprawled back, coffee in hand but no presentation packet in sight. With a heavy thud, he dropped the cup on my desk, splashing dark liquid across the lacquered surface. I looked pointedly at the coasters—only inches away.
Nathan huffed, snatched one up with exaggerated disdain. “You’re as bad as my ex-wife,” he muttered, shoving it under the cup without bothering to wipe the spill.
My teeth clenched, but my tone stayed even. “What did you want to discuss?”
“I wanted to touch base on a couple things.” He flashed that calculating look, coffee-stained teeth on full display. “Fort Worth’s still in limbo. Dallas bids are bleeding slow. If we’re running full tilt, we can’t afford dead weight.”
He coughed on the last word, flecks of spit dotting the papers I’d been reviewing.
“We’re resolving it.” I tore a corner from one of the reports on my desk, balling the scrap between my fingers. “Procurement flagged the spike and paused the contracts. Updated pricing came in this morning. We push three weeks and recover the margin—or sign now and bleed.”
Nathan scoffed. “You always did love a delay.”
“Three weeks won’t tank Q4.”
“Maybe not.” He stretched lazily, feigning boredom while his eyes gleamed with malice. “But with everything else going on, maybe don’t tempt the gods.”
A low “Mm” slipped out as I rolled the paper ball between my fingers, focusing on its rough edges instead of Nathan’s punchable face. The urge to throw it—or him—was strong.
Then the pivot I’d been dreading.
Nathan cleared his throat. “So. Elion.”
I looked up. His grin was pure provocation.
“I went ahead and scheduled a joint check-in for next Wednesday,” he said. “Since the girl seems eager to move fast.”
The girl.
Something hot and dark ignited low in my gut. I crushed the paper between my fingers. “Ms. Sinclair.” Each syllable razor-edged.
He rolled his eyes; the ceiling groaned with him.
“She’s the founder and CEO of the company we’re partnering with. If you want this deal to survive, you’ll refer to her accordingly.”
“Fine. Ms. Sinclair.” The words slipped out like a sulking teenager told to pick up his mess.
“Now, as for next Wednesday—” My voice iced over, fury pulsing beneath the calm. “You scheduled a meeting without my approval or my knowledge?”
He shrugged. “You said she wanted to move fast. Figured I’d grease the wheels.”
Rage coiled in my gut. She must have seen the invite—that’s why she hadn’t answered.
I leaned forward, elbows on wood. “Next time you schedule anything under my name, clear it with me first.”
“Relax.” He waved a hand. “It’s just a status touchpoint. Unless she’s too fragile to handle a calendar invite, I don’t see the issue.”
Fragile.
My jaw locked. “Fragile? She handled your bullshit on that call with more composure than half the men you worship in this company. That wasn’t fragility—it was restraint. Something you wouldn’t recognize if it hit you in the face.”
Nathan chuckled, self-satisfied. “Fine. Fine.”
He heaved himself out of the chair; buttons strained as he shuffled for the door. Didn’t even close it behind him. His coffee sat abandoned on my desk, brown ring already staining the coaster.
I hurled the crushed paper ball after him.
It didn’t make the doorway.