My assistant,Tom’s, face tells me that my day is about to get longer.
And it’s been pretty fucking long already.
How is it possible to have so many meetings in one day and still have an inbox that is out of control?
I encourage my employees to strive for a work-life balance, but I’m never more critically aware of how difficult that is in this day and age of cell phones and emails, Teams chats and conference calls than when I’m trying to find my own balance.
It’s challenging to manage it all and I have a whole team managingmeand my schedule.
“We have a problem,” Tom says, which is not a surprise, considering the expression on his face.
“I’ve gathered that,” I reply dryly, resisting the urge to wrench a hand through my hair.
I’ve been too busy to think about Marie—much, anyway—but it’s been two days since she left my condo.
Two because she hasn’t been in her place or the lobby or the gym—and yes, I kept my eyes peeled as I walked through the sunlit vestibule, as I ran on the treadmill and wished the one next to mine wasn’t empty. I even jogged for a solid eight miles last night, staying in the gym far too late, hoping to catch a glimpse of bouncing brown curls as she strolled through the door.
There were no curls, no strolling.
Just me and my tired body and dick that was—is—desperate for more.
Unfortunately, it’s also been two days since I’ve been inside her, since I’ve held and tasted her, since I gave her my hoodie with the complete and total intention to find a way to meet up with her and get it back, because shit is going down.
Our patent on a new blood clot removal device has been denied.
Because supposedly a competitor filed for it first.
A competitor that hasn’t been in the clot removal business before.
Tell me how our decade of research and experience and trials has suddenly been bumped to the side for this unknown company with dubious roots.
Corporate espionage? Government shadiness?
Legit growth that we’ve somehow missed?
The last seems the least likely.
The first two—even though six months ago I would have said was insanity speaking—are possible.
But Genen-core is a relatively small company when it comes to big business.
I have five thousand employees and worldwide distribution of our products, with growth steady and exponential since COVID-times, but I’m not one of those huge tech billionaires. We’re in biomedical, a notoriously difficult field to make money, if only because of the length it takes to get products to market and the cost to properly conduct research and medical trials.
Because of that, our government contracts are critical, as are our relationships with insurance companies.
Something that I hated at first—I battled them far too often when I was caring for my mom.
Something I recognize as a necessary evil nowadays.
“What’s happening?” I ask Tom, as he pauses in front of my desk, a sickly expression on his face.
“The FBI are here.”
My brows fly up. “Want to run that by me again?”
He opens his mouth, but he doesn’t get a chance to speak because the door to my office swings open, two women strolling inside, my assistant, Jo, chasing after them.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Henderson,” she says. “They just—” She nibbles at the corner of her mouth, wincing.
