8. Strict Boundary #2
I tightened my hold on the table. The Sterling deal was mine. I built the trap, I cornered the rival board, and I would execute the final strike on my own timeline. Giving him an inch of authority meant admitting I was losing my grip on the empire.
“The Addison capital is secure, and the buyout happens at the end of the month,” I said. “Stop micromanaging my floor.”
My father leaned further over the edge of the table, invading my space.
“Your lack of focus is unacceptable,” he boomed. “Get your head in the game before you jeopardize this entire multibillion-dollar joint venture. If your wife’s disappearance is causing this erratic behavior, fix it immediately. I won’t let her pedestrian tantrums ruin my legacy.”
The volume of the threat left a ringing silence in its wake. I released my grip. I stepped backward, dragging a tall executive chair into the space between us.
“Do not talk about my wife,” I said.
My voice dropped. I wrapped my hands over the high back of the chair. I gripped the material, pressing my weight down until the seams creaked under the strain. I needed the anchor to keep from crossing the room and shoving him toward the exit.
Letting her play out this working-class fantasy on a bus was supposed to teach her a harsh lesson. It was supposed to prove how much she needed the security of my empire. Hearing my father use her absence as corporate ammunition ruined the illusion that I was still calling the shots.
I would never admit defeat to him. I refused to let him see my panic.
“My personal life is none of your concern,” I said, keeping my tone lethal and quiet. “The Sterling buyout is secured. Back off.”
My father narrowed his eyes. The furious flush on his neck didn’t fade, but his posture shifted to match the silent hostility of the room.
I let go of the chair and pointed toward the doors at the far end of the room.
“Get out,” I commanded.
He stared at the extended finger for a long moment. He straightened his jacket, holding his ground.
“Then prove it by closing the deal at the end of the month without any more outbursts,” my father said. “Do not disappoint me again, Cassian.”
I left my father standing in the boardroom. The executive corridor stretched out before me, empty and silent. I pushed through the door to my private office and turned the lock, finally sealing myself off from the rest of the floor. I walked straight to the wet bar built into the far wall.
I grabbed a crystal tumbler from the top shelf and poured a measure of scotch.
“Just give me a minute of quiet,” I muttered to the empty room.
I pressed the cold glass against my knuckles. The raw skin stung from where I had struck the boardroom table. I took a long swallow, letting the alcohol burn down my throat. Through the window, a faint city siren wailed in the distance. The endless crawl of headlights below felt like another world.
I stepped away from the window and approached my desk. I set the glass down. I picked up the tablet resting near a massive stack of Addison merger files. I swiped the screen open and skipped the financial dashboards. I tapped directly into the building’s internal security feed.
I selected the lobby camera from the night of the dinner. The security footage loaded on the screen. Wren stepped out of the private elevator.
I tracked her movements frame by frame. I stared at the set of her shoulders and the winter coat swallowing her pregnant silhouette. She pulled a battered suitcase behind her, wearing practical flat shoes instead of the heels I bought her.
She walked right past the private car service. She ignored the doorman attempting to take her luggage. She pushed open the front doors and vanished into the freezing night.
The video ended and looped back to the beginning. She walked out again. I had been so certain she was throwing a tantrum. I expected a call from a five-star spa by Sunday morning, demanding an apology and a credit card number. The silence stretching into these long days scraped my patience raw.
The memory of our last night in the penthouse pushed through the quiet of the room.
“Come to bed, Cassian. The empire will still be there tomorrow, I promise.”
“I just need to finish these projections, Wren. Go to sleep, I’ll be there soon.”
I dropped the tablet flat onto the desk.
The screen continued to glow, replaying her exit for the hundredth time.
Eighteen hundred dollars from a pawned necklace could not possibly stretch this long.
A pregnant woman accustomed to our standard of living would not last on a public bus or in a cheap motel.
She was dragging out this miserable protest.
I looked at the towering stack of files beside the tablet. The corporate logic, the proxy votes, the hostile takeover mechanics—they were supposed to secure our legacy. Instead, they sat there looking completely useless while I waited for a dead phone to ring.
I drove my forearm violently across the surface.
The binders flew off the edge. They crashed against the base of the desk, bursting open and burying the floor in ruined spreadsheets.
The sound of the impact faded, and the office fell silent.
“That cash has to be gone by now,” I said. “Stop punishing us and just come home, Wren.”
I sank into the chair behind my desk, staring down at the scattered paper, desperate for my wife to come home.