The bed looms in the corner, sheets pristine, untouched, but once more, I see her there—one shoe dangling off her foot, her skirt riding up to reveal the soft curve of her thigh.
The memory of her lingers in my memory, warm and fleeting, a stabbing reminder of everything I’ve lost.
Lost?
That’s bullshit, and I know it. I’d thrown it all away.
I pour another whiskey, the bottle heavier than it should be, my hand unsteady as the amber liquid sloshes into the glass.
My father’s watch glints on the nightstand, its ticking a relentless reminder of his mistakes. Did he feel this when he drove my mother away? This hollow, gnawing ache, like he’d ripped out his own heart and called it victory?
I was so sure I’d never be him, so certain I’d built something unassailable. But here I am, staring into the same abyss, my choices carving out the same wounds.
I sink onto the couch, the city’s pulse a faint, mocking echo of my own.
The truth is a blade in my gut: sending her away was the biggest mistake of my life.
I had a choice, and I made the wrong one.
My phone sits silent on the coffee table, its screen dark—no texts, no calls, because she’s not coming back.
I don’t deserve her to.
Torturing myself, I pull up the video she’d sent me that night after she met her friends for happy hour.
The video is high-definition, and I see every detail of her as she removed her clothes and breathlessly responded to my every command.
My name sounds sweet on her lips. Her tiny moans make my cock hard. And her shuddering climax is the stuff of erotic dreams.
The video ends, but my mind supplies more… The image of her standing in my office, voice cracking with emotion.
And now, in the quiet of this empty penthouse, I’m left with nothing but the weight of what I’ve lost—a kingdom of glass and no one left to rule it with.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Xavier
The boardroom smells of stale coffee and desperation, the air thick with the weight of a deal gone sour. The Lockhart acquisition—my albatross—hangs over us like a guillotine.
The forensic accountant, a wiry man named Kessler with glasses that keep sliding down his nose, stands at the head of the table, his laptop casting a cold glow across the polished mahogany.
Walt sits to my right, his jaw tight, fingers drumming a restless rhythm on the armrest. The rest of the board fidgets, their eyes darting between Kessler’s screen and me, waiting for the axe to fall.
I insisted Walt be here. He needs to see this, to feel the sting of his own missteps. He’s not a bad man—just a stubborn one, hell-bent on inflating the family legacy, even if it means bulldozing reason. His loyalty to Blackwell Enterprises is ironclad, but his judgment? That’s been clouded by ambition, and I’m not innocent of the same sin.
Kessler clears his throat, pushing his glasses up. “The financials are worse than we anticipated.” His voice is clipped, precise, like he’s dissecting a corpse. “Lockhart’s cash flow issues weren’t just overstated assets or vendor deferrals. We’ve uncovered deliberate misdirection.”
My gut twists, but I keep my face stone-cold. Seraphina’s voice echoes in my head, her warning from that Saturday morning when she’d sat across from me, her eyes bruised with exhaustion but fierce with conviction. “The numbers don’t add up, Xavier.” I should’ve listened. Instead I let Walt and Reynolds blind me, let my pride and paranoia torch the one person who’d been trying to save me.
“Go on.” My voice is dangerous with the need to make someone pay.
Kessler clicks to a new slide, a spreadsheet dense with red flags. “We traced a series of payments—disguised as consulting fees—totaling over two million dollars. They were funneled through a shell company in the Caymans to an account linked to Elliot Reynolds.”
The room goes still, the silence so heavy it could crush bone. Walt’s fingers freeze mid-drum, his face paling. “Reynolds?” He gasps, disbelief warring with dread.
Kessler nods. “The payments started fifteen months ago, coinciding with the initial Lockhart negotiations. The shell company, Triton Ventures, is a front. We’ve got bank records, wire confirmations, and emails between Reynolds and an unlisted contact at Lockhart. He was inflating their financials to push the deal through.”
I lean forward, my knuckles white against the table.
