6. Declan
SIX
DECLAN
Left hook. Right cross.
The bag swung. I hit it again. The tape on my knuckles was damp with sweat, and the impact shot through my wrists and up my forearms and into my shoulders. I kept going.
Left. Left. Right.
Her face flashed before me. Her dark curls spilled across my pillow. She lay on her stomach, face turned toward me, one arm tucked beneath her head.
I hit harder.
With her back turned, she dressed. The zipper climbed up just as I'd drawn it down the night before, but the gesture had changed entirely. Every inch of her was tense, rigid, sealed away. She didn't have to tell me this was goodbye. I could feel it.
And that was why I never got attached.
Right cross. Left hook. Right.
I hit the bag so hard it jerked on the chain. The ceiling mount groaned.
It might be hard to believe, but I used to dream of love.
My parents sold it well. I envied them. That was until that one night eighteen years ago.
I came home early from practice because I forgot my gear bag.
The door was open three inches. His hand on the back of a woman's neck.
My father looked up. He saw me. But his expression didn't change. He didn’t even have the gall to pretend to feel guilty.
He came to my room that night, sat on the edge of my bed, and put his hand on my shoulder.
“People stay for what you provide, Declan. Remember that,” he said.
Right. Right. Right.
The next morning, I told my mother. She was in the kitchen, drinking coffee from the blue porcelain cup she always used. I stood in the doorway and told her everything. What I saw, who I saw, what he said after. I was shaking.
She put down the coffee and looked at me. Her face was calm. Perfectly, architecturally calm. "I know," she said. "Now finish your breakfast."
I hit the bag until my arms burned. Until the tape on my left hand split and the skin underneath stung with sweat. Until my lungs screamed.
I didn’t understand. Was my mother okay with it? Or did she just hide her pain because she didn’t know what else to do?
Eighteen years later, I still didn’t have the answer. That experience had scarred me from relationships, from commitment. Until I met Kira.
It wasn’t her beauty or her long legs that attracted me. It wasn’t her silky blonde hair or her lips shaped like Cupid’s bow. It was her laugh. I heard it first before I saw her at that fashion show Julian dragged me to. I remembered wondering how I’d missed her on the runway.
Kira made me break all of my rules. Don’t commit. Broken. Get a new apartment every year. Broken. Don’t live with who you’re dating at the time. Broken. Don’t let anyone into your heart. Broken. Don’t let them walk out on you. Broken.
The last one was the hardest to deal with. I was always the one who left. It was hard, and it drove me half mad because I didn’t know why she left. I did everything right. I was present. I got her flowers. Women loved flowers, right? I even negotiated a modelling deal with a top agency for her.
If I did all that, why did Kira leave me?
Left. Right. Left. Right. Left.
I hit until my knuckles burned. Until my lungs ached. Until the memories sank back down to wherever I kept them, that locked room in the center of my chest where nothing was allowed to escape.
I stopped, pressed my forehead against the bag, and breathed.
I straightened up, unwrapped the tape, and ran my thumb across the split skin on my left knuckle. I’d had enough. I exited the gym and headed to my room. I stripped quickly and jumped into the shower.
The water came down scalding. I let it stay until every last trace of heat was gone. When I stepped out, the mirror had fogged completely.
I put on a charcoal suit and a pale-blue shirt with the collar open, then walked out of my room and into the kitchen.
Mrs. Parrish was at the counter, wiping it down with a cloth. Her silver hair that she wore in a bun didn’t budge as she moved. She looked up and nodded when I walked in.
"Good morning, Mr. Hale. Your coffee is on the counter."
"Thank you."
"Will you be needing anything else before I start on the study?"
"No. Thank you, Mrs. Parrish."
She picked up her caddy of supplies from the counter and walked toward the hallway.
I drank the espresso and checked the markets on my phone. The Lassiter deal was holding. The FTSE was up. The Nikkei was steady.
The car was waiting at the curb. My driver, Thomas, held the door. I slid in and opened my phone again before the seat belt clicked.
Graham picked up on the first ring. "We have an issue with Roland Caine, boss."
"Good morning to you, too, Graham. Lovely weather. How's the cat?"
"Julian's hit a wall. Caine won't engage. We need to find a solution."
I watched Park Avenue scroll past the window. "Get me his direct line."
"I'll have it in twenty minutes."
"Make it ten."
He hung up. The number came through in eight minutes. I dialed.
Caine picked up on the fourth ring. "Who is this, and how did you get this number?"
I almost laughed. Must suck to be so paranoid all the time. "Caine, it's Declan Hale, and I got this number because I'm very resourceful and mildly relentless." I smiled into the phone. "I'm calling because you and I both know this conversation needs to happen eventually. Face-to-face."
A pause. I could hear Caine breathing. Then he said, "Let me tell you something, Hale. I spent forty years building this company with my own two hands. I'm not just going to hand it over to you."
"I couldn't agree more. Which is why I'm calling you directly."
Another pause. Longer. I let it stretch. Silence was a currency, and the man who spent it first lost the negotiation.
"I'm busy this month," Caine said finally. "I’ll see you on the twenty-seventh. My office. Two o'clock. Don't be late."
"I'm never late, Caine."
I hung up and smiled. Three weeks. That was more than enough time to assemble the file, learn the man inside out, and walk into that room with every answer already waiting before he could ask a question.
The car turned onto Park Road.
The Vanguard was already humming when I stepped off the elevator. Elise stood. An associate appeared with a file. Graham appeared at my left elbow, launching into the afternoon schedule before I'd made it three steps.
"The Bloomberg interview is at two. Conference room B. Nolan declined to participate."
I wasn’t surprised. Nolan had never shown up for any interviews.
"Julian confirmed. He'll sit in," Graham continued.
I scoffed. "Julian would sit in on a dental exam if there was a camera involved."
Graham adjusted his glasses. The ghost of a smirk. "The interviewer is Meredith Kane. Financial correspondent. She's sharp."
"Good. I like them sharp."
I found Julian in my office. Not behind my desk this time — he was on the couch, legs crossed, scrolling through his phone.
"Caine finally agreed to a meeting. We’ll see him in three weeks," I said.
Julian looked up. "You're kidding."
"I never kid about acquisitions." I set my briefcase down. "I called him directly. He’s going to be really difficult to deal with. Now come on. We have an interview to handle.”
The conference room was prepped by one-thirty. Two cameras, professional lighting, the Vanguard logo positioned just right behind the interview chairs. Nolan walked past the open door, glanced inside, and kept walking.
"Nolan," I called after him. "Care to join us?"
He stopped and turned. "No."
"You'd look great on camera."
"I look great everywhere. That's not the issue." He adjusted his cuff. "I’m not interested."
"Fair enough." I smirked. "More screen time for the rest of us."
He walked away without responding. Julian appeared beside me, running a hand through his sandy hair.
"Ready?" he asked.
I nodded.
Meredith Kane was exactly what Graham warned me about — sharp, polished, with intense eye contact. Dark hair, a good suit, and a handshake that stayed on half a second too long.
"Declan James Hale. Thank you for having me." The right corner of her lips curved.
I unbuttoned my jacket and settled into the interview chair. "The pleasure is entirely mine, Meredith."
Julian sat to my right, leaning back, relaxed, the picture of effortless composure. The red light on the camera blinked on.
The interview was good. She asked about the Lassiter acquisition — the structure, the timeline, the market implications.
I gave her enough to keep the audience interested and not enough to give our competitors an edge.
Julian jumped in with the financial context, making complex debt structures sound like dinner conversation.
"The Vanguard has acquired fourteen companies in the last five years," Meredith said, glancing at her notes. "Total enterprise value north of six billion. You've been called the most aggressive acquisition firm on the Street. Do you agree with that characterization?"
I smiled. "I'd say we're the most precise. Aggression is sloppy. We're deliberate."
"And the Caine Media acquisition? Can you confirm the deal is in play?"
"I can confirm that we find Roland Caine to be a fascinating conversationalist." I tilted my head. "Beyond that, you'll have to wait with everyone else."
She smiled back. The camera's red light blinked. Julian was grinning beside me.
The interview wrapped. The cameras powered down. Meredith shook my hand again, and as she pulled back, she pressed a folded piece of paper into my palm. I glanced at it. A phone number, written in clean, deliberate handwriting. Below it: Call me.
I slipped it into my jacket pocket without changing my expression.
Julian waited until she was out of the room. "What was that?"
I held the paper up. "Her number."
"Are you going to call her?"
I straightened my cuffs and smirked. "I just might."
Julian laughed, and we walked back together. He waved as he veered off in the direction of his office. I nodded and continued to mine.
I pulled the folded paper from my pocket and smoothed it on my desk. She was attractive and intelligent, and it wasn’t exactly business since the interview was over, the segment would air, and there was no ongoing relationship to complicate.
Calling her would be easy. A dinner. A drink. A distraction from the dark-haired woman I was trying not to think about.
I put the number in my phone and stared at the screen. My thumb hovered over the call button. I was just about to hit the dial when my office door swung open.
Nolan stood in the doorway. He was frowning, his jaw was set, and his lips pressed into a thin line. Now, who's gone and pissed off Nolan Reeves? Probably one of the interns.
I leaned back in my chair and summoned the grin. "You look like you're about to deliver a eulogy, Reeves. Who died?"
He didn't smile. He walked in and closed the door behind him. He sat in the chair across from my desk and folded his hands.
"I'm about to say something that might change everything."
The grin faltered a little. Oh, probably not an intern then. "What? Did the acquisition fall through? Did Caine cancel the meeting?"
Nolan shook his head. "No."
"Then what?"
Nolan looked at me. And then he said four words that split my life into before and after.
"You have a daughter."