“Can we have a meeting at 730? I’m in the middle of something now, so I can’t talk, but there’s something I need to discuss with you.” I hear the familiar background chatter of his five-year-old son, Santi, and four-year-old daughter, Lillie. “Daddy, is that Uncle Chase?” Lillie asks, in her adorable tiny voice.
“You taking the kids to school?” I say, a smile finding its way to my face for the first time today.
“Yeah,” he sighs. “The little monsters are driving me crazy. We’ve already had a juice explosion on my cream leather seats.”
“I did warn you when you were choosing the interior color scheme to go for something more practical.” I tsk, aware I’m probably just pissing him off more.
“It was Lillie’s fault,” Santi whines in the background.
“Okay,” I say, taking pity on him. “You sound like you’ve got your hands full. I’ll see you at 7.30 in my office. Tell the kids I’ve got the gifts I promised, and we’ll have a day out soon.”
“Stop buying them gifts,” Austen protests before he’s drowned out by the kids. “No!” They chorus in unison. “Please don’t stop, Uncle Chase,”
“I’ll see you later,” I say, ending the call with a snicker. I love those kids. They’re the closest thing I’ll ever get to a family. At thirty-six, I should have my own, but I decided long ago thatlife isn’t for me, so Austen will just have to endure me spoiling them instead.
I hit the showers, letting the hot steam unfurl some of the tension in my muscles. Then I don my charcoal Brioni suit and a crisp white shirt after splashing on my favorite cologne. I slick back the long strands of thick hair that sit on top of the closely cut hair underneath.
The second I have the suit on, it’s as if I become another person. Not the Chase who likes to fight with his buddy from back in the day. Or the one that likes to hang out with Austen and his family watching reruns of Paw Patrol. I become the ruthless son of a bitch who only thinks of bottom lines and profit margins. I stride out of the basement gym, passing by the glass walls of the action suite. The blonde girl from sales—or is it marketing?—is in her usual spot, performing her squats in eye-watering skimpy shorts and a tight crop top. Her eyes flicker to the wall-to-ceiling mirrors as she subtly tries to watch me stroll past. It’s certainly no accident she’s there at the exact time I leave every day. But that’s the least of my concerns. Violet is somehow spilling over from yesterday to last night and now into today. If Austen knows her name, she’s not as insignificant as I imagined.
I march through the lobby towards the small crowd waiting for the elevator. Their shoulders stiffen with awareness as I glide by into the empty elevator, offering a terse, “Good morning.” No one dares step in with me as I hit the button for the executive floor. My foul mood is written all over my face.
As I breeze out of the elevator, Bethany, my PA, is already stationed at her desk with my freshly prepared coffee.
“Good morning, Mr. Knight,” she says, following me into my office, my meeting schedule in hand.
I settle behind my desk, flipping open my laptop case, only to pause when I spot Violet’s lanyard still lying carelessly across the surface. For a moment, I freeze. Then, before Bethany can notice, I swipe it out of sight, the action quick and oddly guilty—like I’ve got something to hide.
The only thing I should be ashamed about, I figure, is the sordid thoughts I was harboring when sleep refused to come.
“How are you this morning, Mr. Knight?” Bethany asks, placing my coffee down with her usual efficiency.
“I’ve been better, Bethany. And how about your little rascals? Still keeping you on your toes?”
She exhales a weary laugh. “More like keeping me on my knees. Honestly, coming into work is the closest thing I get to quiet time.”
“Tell them the big, bad Mr. Knight will pay them a visit if they don’t shape up,” I say with a wry smile.
Bethany chuckles as she adjusts a file on my desk. Despite having four kids under ten, she manages my chaotic schedule with military precision. I’d be lost without her.
I sip my coffee, its bitterness a welcome jolt, and glance at Bethany, who’s already armed with her tablet, ready to launch into the day’s agenda.
“So, what’s on for today?” I ask, leaning back in my chair.
“First up, Austen at 7:30. He requested the meeting early this morning—didn’t give details, but said it was important.”
I raise an eyebrow but say nothing.
“At nine, there’s a call with the legal team for contract negotiations. Finance at eleven for the quarterly projections, andthen marketing at 1:30 for their campaign overview. I.T. rounds out the day at three with their project update.”
She scrolls, then glances up with a faint smile. “That’s it for now, but you know how it goes—someone always tries to squeeze in more.”
“Let’s keep it tight, Bethany. And send me the updated proposal draft now. I’ll look it over while I wait for Austen.”
“Already in your inbox.” She places a bottle of sparkling water on my desk before disappearing into the hallway, as seamless as always.
I pull up the latest draft of the Monarch Global Bank proposal. This contract is the cornerstone of everything we’ve worked for—our entry into international finance on a scale that will put Knightwell in a league of its own.
I scan the projections, tweaking a few lines and adjusting the phrasing to hammer home the ROI for their stakeholders. It’s strong, but it has to be flawless. There’s no room for interpretation, no chance for them to second-guess.
