Chapter 15
SNICKERS
The Metropolitan Club’s boxing ring stands deserted at three in the afternoon—an island of solitude amid the relentless pulse of the city.
Its overhead lights cast a stark glow on the polished ropes and gleaming canvas. The familiar scent of leather and sweat grounds me as I step into the ring.
Punch by punch, I work out the frustration coiled inside me—the board meeting, Clare’s plan, that ridiculous poem I’ll be forced to create and recite.
The heavy bag swings under the force of my strikes, a rhythmic thud filling the quiet space.
My thoughts drift to the meeting with Pip today in Clare’s office.
In my mind’s eye, I see the upturned corners of her smirking face.
And punch harder.
Why does that vintage fashionista have this effect on me? Every time I look at her, I either want to smack her.
Or kiss her.
Sometimes both at the same time.
Returning to my empty bedroom after that night six months ago still raises my ire. How dare she leave without even a goodbye?
I had planned on finishing breakfast, sweeping away the croissant crumbs, and having another round of nookie in bed.
Maybe even stay in bed all day, watch something good on Netflix, and order Chinese food.
It felt good to cuddle with Pip. Familiar. Real.
Like she was part of me.
And even though she’s half my size, we fit together perfectly. I remember the way she fell asleep in my arms, her rounded ass fitting so neatly into the space I made for her against my torso.
Why did she leave?
It was the first time in almost a decade that I let a woman stay the entire night in my apartment.
Pip was special. Didn’t she realize that?
I attack the heavy bag again and again.
For a brief, vicious second, it helps.
But instant regret follows.
It’s unfair to take my frustrations out on the Pipsqueak.
She must have had her own reasons for leaving so suddenly. God knows I’ve been guilty of the same thing dozens, maybe even hundreds of times.
But the thing is, didn’t she feel the same magic I felt when we came together?
“Nice form, Woodward,” a voice calls from the shadows above. “Much better than your pathetic karaoke.”
I breathe in sharply, my stance stiffening.
Jackson Johnson, hedge fund golden boy, strides down from the observation deck like he owns the place.
Perfectly at ease in his designer workout gear.
We’ve been in school together our entire lives. First the Horace Mann School. Then Harvard.
But we’ve been adversaries from the sandbox. Nothing’s changed in nearly four decades.
“Rough night at Rock Center?” Jackson taunts, his voice light, mocking. As if we’re old friends sharing a joke. “Lucky that pint-sized vintage princess was there to save you.”
I exhale slowly, rolling the tension out of my shoulders, letting it slide off me.
Ignore it. Just walk away.
The bag swings back toward me. I strike—hard. And then harder.
My breath slows. A cold, precise stillness settles into my muscles.
I already know what he’s going to say next—I’ve heard variations of it whispered in board meetings.
At charity galas.
In the hushed voices of executives who don’t think I belong in my own company.
“Hey, at least she’s cute,” Jackson continues. “In a thrift store kind of way. Though I guess when you’re that desperate to keep your trust fund?—”
I don’t remember crossing the ring. One second, I’m on my side of the ropes—the next, my fist connects with Jackson’s smug mouth.
A crack. A grunt of pain.
Jackson hits the mat hard, a fresh line of red blooming on his lower lip. His eyes widen in shock.
The taunting smirk is gone.
For half a second, satisfaction curls in my gut.
Then—reality crashes in.
Around me, the gym is dead silent.
The only sound is Jackson’s heavy breathing as he wipes at the blood smeared across his mouth.
A flicker of guilt pulses beneath the adrenaline. Damn it. That was stupid. Stupid and reckless.
Clare warned me. The board warned me.
But deep down, I know the truth. It isn’t just what Jackson said.
It’s everything. The pressure of becoming Woodward & Co’s CEO. The expectations.
I needed release and Jackson was in the immediate proximity.
“Enough.”
A firm grip locks around my arm, pulling me back.
Silver-haired, immovable, Richard Samuels stands between us like a sentinel, effortlessly placing himself in the line of fire.
“Still leading with your right, Sheldon,” Richard says calmly, his voice like tempered steel.
My godfather and the highest-ranking member of the board outside of Harrison Blake, he had been my grandfather’s most trusted friend.
Seeing me act out like this, he could have snapped.
Reprimanded me.
And reminded me that I’ve just made my already fragile situation worse.
But instead, only an unspoken reproach.
You still haven’t learned.
Jackson rises, anger flickering in his eyes as he swipes at the blood on his lip.
He opens his mouth—clearly ready to spew something he’ll regret.
Richard gives him a single look.
Then there’s silence as Jackson shakes his head and takes his leave.
Richard claps a hand on my shoulder, steering me toward the opulent locker room.
“I’ll wait here while you shower,” he adds, leaning against a gleaming wooden bench as I strip off my shirt.
I don’t argue.
My pulse is still hammering, my body thrumming with the kind of energy that a fight never fully drains.
I step into the shower, turning the handle until near-scalding water rushes down, cascading over my shoulders.
The rainfall faucet pounds against my skin, washing away the sweat, the frustration—everything but the tight knot of pressure coiled inside me.
For a few minutes, I just stand there. Eyes closed. Breathing.
When I finally step out, the fogged mirror reveals only the vague shape of my reflection. A smudged outline of a man still figuring out who he’s supposed to be.
I swipe a hand across the glass, clearing just enough to see my face. My jaw tightens.
Still me. Like it or not.
By the time I’m dressed, smoothing my damp hair back into place, Richard is waiting by the door.
His sharp gaze takes me in, assessing. Measuring.
“Going back to the office?” he asks.
“Yeah,” I say, shrugging into my coat. “Clare wants me to clear the personal things out of Preston’s office. I’ve been putting it off, mostly because I couldn’t take the idea of entering it alone.”
“I’ll join you.” He falls into step beside me as we exit our club, heading toward 42nd Street.
Once we’re inside, I sense Richard watching me as I take in the space.
Everything remains as Preston left it—perfect order, not an ink pen out of place.
No sign of hesitance, no room for disorder.
It feels almost surgical. A shrine carefully preserved.
And yet, amid the neat stacks of files, one thing stands out.
A folder sits on the desk, slightly askew—only a few inches off, but in this room, even that feels loud. My name is printed on the front tab.
I know what it is before I even reach for it.
My proposal. The one I sent months ago.
The folder flips open under my fingers, and my breath catches. Preston’s handwriting fills the margins in clipped, efficient scrawl:
Integration with social media essential. Snickers’ proposed algorithm could redefine personalization.
I stare. My mind goes blank.
He actually read my proposal.
Not only read it—but appears to have considered it.
A carefully maintained truth cracks inside me. I had assumed—no, convinced myself—that he had disregarded it, just like the board.
Richard steps forward. “What is it?”
I exhale, the words scraping out. “A proposal I sent a few months ago. I thought he dismissed it. He never even replied.”
Richard studies me. “Seems to me he was thinking about it more than you realized.”
The weight in my chest grows heavier.
Preston and I never truly worked together—I barely saw him in action.
I only caught glimpses of him at the office, as a teen when I was forced to do odd jobs here during summer vacations.
And yet, just now, I saw positive proof he considered my ideas.
Just as I flip to another page in Preston’s notes, my phone buzzes.
A message. From Pip.
I swipe it open and freeze.
A photo of Pip standing in front of a dressing room mirror.
I laugh. In that conservative ‘ladies who lunch’ style dress, she looks nothing like her edgy, vintage fashionista self.
Her flamboyant energy muffled into something composed.
Presentable.
Tamed.
Beneath the image, a single line of text:
How do you like the Corporate-approved Pip?
What has Antoine done to her?
“What’s that, Sheldon?” Richard asks.
“Nothing.”
That Pip. Even when she’s stuck playing by someone else’s rules, she manages to mock them.
I glance at my watch. My former manager is in the city for the night, and I’m late to meet him.
“Thanks, Richard. For everything. I appreciate your support. Now I have a drinks meeting to get to.”
He must have caught a glimpse of Pip’s image on my phone, because his lips quirk up in amusement.
“So I see.”
“No. I’m not meeting Pip. I don’t even know why she sent me this.”
Richard shrugs. “Ah. Well, women. No rhyme or reason for anything they do.”
That’s true enough.
Pip. Full of surprises.
And for the first time, I’m curious what our ‘date’ tomorrow will lead to.