Chapter 2 #2
Jocelyn touches my wrist, two fingers, brief pressure. “We’re close. You know that, right? Everything you’ve worked for. The mountain portfolio, the international expansion, the board finally shutting up for five consecutive minutes.”
“Impossible dream.”
“Three minutes, then.”
This time I do laugh. Short. Tired. Her fingers leave my wrist.
She watches me for a second longer, then looks back at the files. “I’ll make sure you remember to eat out there. No full entourage, so basic survival may fall to me.”
“I can feed myself.”
“You can sign a nine-figure acquisition and forget lunch.”
“Lunch is inefficient.”
“Food is, unfortunately, necessary.”
It's familiar. Easy in the way work becomes easy with someone who already knows the pressure points. We've been in conference rooms in Denver, Palm Beach, London, Singapore. Late nights. Early flights. Bad coffee. Too much ambition and not enough sleep.
“We get this,” Jocelyn says, turning a rendering toward me, “and we change the company.”
We. I hear it. Accept it. Move on.
“Book the flight,” I say. “Small plane. No staff beyond crew. Tell Beatrice to clear the calendar quietly.”
“And Mallory?”
I look at the phone again. I could ask. I could send, Ridgeline came up. Quick site visit. Want to come?
I can already see the answer she'd send because Mallory hates being an obstacle.
Of course. Whatever you need.
She'd come because I asked. She'd pack the right clothes, smile through the wrong shoes, and stand beside me while I forgot to introduce her properly to a seller who didn’t matter. Then she'd tell me she was fine because I've taught her, somehow, that fine is the answer that lets me keep moving.
My chest tightens. I rub at the center of it with two fingers.
“She doesn’t need to deal with this,” I say.
Jocelyn nods once and opens the scheduling app. “I’ll keep it tight.”
We leave the executive floor at 2:43 a.m.
The hotel lobby below has been stripped of its gala skin. No music now. No investors.
One of the arrangements from the rooftop waits near the freight corridor, too large for the cart beside it. White roses, greenery, with the Carmichael mark removed from the stand. A single flower has fallen and lies on the marble.
I stop. Not for long. Half a second, maybe.
The rose is bruised along one edge, cream petals bent where someone stepped too close. It should mean nothing. Flowers fall. Staff will sweep it up.
Instead, I see Mallory in the back seat of an old car with buckets wedged around her knees, laughing because one of the stems has shed pollen across her cheek.
Green stains on her fingers. A pair of snips tucked into the front pocket of a canvas apron.
Her telling me, very seriously, that if I was a flower, I'd be a snapdragon and don't ask why.
It just makes sense. She teased me then.
Constantly. The memory is so clear I can hear her laugh before she learned to soften it for rooms like the one last night.
I can't remember the last time I saw her hands in a bucket of stems because she wanted them there. Not for an event. Not for a table plan. Not because a florist panicked and Mallory fixed it before anyone important saw.
My phone rings. Ridgeline. The name on the screen is the seller’s attorney, and my body answers before the thought can finish.
“Carmichael,” I say.
Jocelyn steps closer immediately, tablet already waking in her hand.
The attorney talks fast. Moreland has made contact. Not an offer, not yet, but enough to prove the window is narrowing.
I give him what he needs. Not too much. Enough.
By the time I end the call, Jocelyn is already changing the flight time.
“We need to go earlier,” she says.
I answer with a sigh.
We walk toward the side entrance where my car waits.
The ride home is quiet except for Jocelyn’s messages coming through in bright, efficient taps before she gets into her own car. Then it's only me in the back seat, the city sliding by in black glass, my bow tie undone, the Ridgeline files open on my phone.
Mallory will be asleep. I picture her in our penthouse, curled toward my side of the bed even when I'm not there. Or maybe turned away. Maybe the lamp is still on. Maybe she left dinner covered in the kitchen because she does that when she thinks I've forgotten to eat.
I should've left with her.
The thought is plain enough that I can't immediately work around it.
I should've found her after the toast. I should've walked through the service corridor and taken the headset off her myself.
I should've told the investors to wait ten minutes while I stood beside my wife in the room she built for me.
The car turns onto our block.
I'll make it up to her. After Ridgeline.
Once this closes, I'll clear several days.
No investors. No office. No Jocelyn, no board, no calls unless the building is on fire.
I'll take Mallory somewhere quiet. Somewhere with old wood floors and flowers she didn't have to approve through a vendor portal.
She can sleep late. I can learn the names of whatever people populate those movies she watches. We'll reset.
She'll understand.
All of this has always been for us. The security. The properties. The future wide enough that nothing can touch her. I just need to get through the next thing, then I can show her.