As we rise, Sorrel turns to watch the chalet shrink below. That massive house where she arrived desperate and cold, where I was hiding from my own destruction.
Where everything changed.
I squeeze her hand and she leans into me, resting her head on my shoulder.
Marcel clears his throat. “Sir, I took the liberty of organizing your messages by priority. The board situation is complicated.” He hands me an iPad. “The lawyers need an immediate response on the Brazil settlement. And the media requests are overwhelming.”
I glance at the screen. Subject lines scroll past.
Board Meeting.
Brazil Settlement Negotiations.
Falk Rare Earth Stock Drops 23%.
A week ago this would have consumed me. Would have sent me into a rage spiral of damage control and strategic warfare.
Now?
I look at Sorrel curled against my side. Her eyes are closed and there’s the faintest smile on her lips. She’s exhausted. She’s been through hell because of me, with me, and she still chose me.
“Tomorrow,” I tell Marcel, setting the iPad down.
Marcel’s eyebrows climb toward his hairline. In fifteen years, I’ve never put anything before business. Not holidays. Not relationships. Not my own health.
“Sir, the board vote is in one week. If you don’t respond, they’ll interpret silence as--”
“Then they can interpret it however the fuck they want.” I growl. “I saidtomorrow.”
Marcel nods slowly, and I catch something like approval in his expression. Or maybe shock. Hard to tell.
Sorrel shifts against me and her hand finds mine again. Our fingers intertwine naturally, like they’ve been doing it for years instead of days.
The helicopter cuts through the darkening sky toward Aspen. Toward airports and cars and the real world that’s been waiting.
Tomorrow I’ll deal with the board.
The lawsuits.
The media circus.
Tonight I’m keeping the only promise that matters. The one I made to the woman sleeping against my shoulder.
Together.
We do everything together now.
The chalet disappears behind us and I don’t look back.
28
Gregory
Manhattan hits me like a slap of cold reality after nearly two weeks in the mountains. My penthouse feels sterile. Empty. Everything is exactly where I left it, but I’m not the same man who walked out that door.
My lawyer briefs me within an hour of landing. The Brazilian plaintiffs have enough evidence to bury me. The media is circling like vultures. The board has the votes. I’m done.
“They’re meeting January sixth,” he says, spreading documents across my dining table. “They’ll ask for your resignation.”
