Harold's eyebrows rise. "Car? Christian, we're all here now. The meeting?—"
"Postpone it," I snap, my tone sharp enough to make Harold blink in surprise.
"We can't postpone," he protests. "The European teams have been preparing for weeks. The acquisition timeline?—"
"I don't care about the timeline," I cut him off, then force myself to moderate my tone. "One hour. Give me one hour to handle this emergency, then we'll proceed."
Harold studies me, clearly debating whether to push back further. Whatever he sees in my expression apparently convinces him. "One hour," he agrees reluctantly. "But we startwith or without you after that. Too much is riding on these decisions."
I nod curtly, already turning back to the doorman. "Cancel the car. I'll take mine from the garage."
My phone buzzes as I stride toward the private elevator that will take me to the executive parking level. My assistant, undoubtedly wondering why I'm not in the boardroom. I ignore it, jabbing the elevator button repeatedly as if that might make it arrive faster.
Upstairs, my office sits empty, the board members gathered in the conference room, my assistant frantically trying to explain my delay. I should care about the impression this makes, about the disruption to carefully laid plans. I don't. All I can think about is Sophie walking away, her face composed but eyes betraying hurt I put there through my own miscalculation.
My Aston Martin roars to life, the engine's growl matching my internal turmoil as I speed out of the garage. I call Sophie again, cursing when it goes straight to voicemail. Again. She's turned off her phone, cut off my access to her. The realization sends a surge of something dangerously close to panic through me.
I never panic. Ever. Control, calculation, strategic response—these are my hallBens, the foundation of my success. But logic and strategy are failing me now, abandoned for a desperate need to find her, explain, make her understand.
Winter Wishes first. She might have gone back to her shop, her sanctuary. I weave through downtown traffic with reckless disregard for speed limits, running a red light that will undoubtedly result in a ticket. I don't care. Time
Winter Wishes first. She might have gone back to her shop, her sanctuary. I weave through downtown traffic with reckless disregard for speed limits, running a red light that will undoubtedly result in a ticket. I don't care. Time matters nowin a way it never has before—not in business deals, not in acquisitions, not in the countless negotiations where I've used time pressure to my advantage.
This isn't a negotiation. This is…something I don't have a framework for. Something I've never experienced. The very real possibility of losing someone who matters. Someone who's become essential in ways I didn't recognize until she walked away.
I call her again. Voicemail. Again.
The rational part of my brain—the CEO, the strategist, the man who never makes decisions based on emotion—tries to assert itself. She's overreacting. She misunderstood. The European expansion is merely a possibility, one of several strategic options being considered. Even if it proceeds, arrangements could be made. Private jets, video calls, extended visits. Sophie could eventually relocate her business, expand to European Benets. There are solutions, strategies, paths forward.
But beneath this rational calculation runs a current of understanding I can't ignore. Sophie isn't upset about logistics. She's upset about honesty. About trust. About the fact that I claimed her as mine while withholding information that directly impacts any future we might have.
I failed to include her in my planning. Failed to recognize that what I consider a business decision separate from personal matters is, to her, inextricably linked. Failed to see that my compartmentalized approach to life—business in one box, personal in another—doesn't work when those worlds collide.
When I reach Winter Wishes, I park haphazardly, ignoring the no-parking zone and the resulting honks from other drivers. The shop is busy with holiday customers, but Sophie is nowhere in sight. Her assistant—Lily—spots me immediately, her expression shifting from surprise to wariness.
"Where is she?" I demand, ignoring the curious stares of shoppers.
Lily crosses her arms. "Not here, obviously. And not taking your calls, from what I gather."
"I need to find her," I tell her, the command in my voice automatic. "It's important."
"So is respecting her wishes," Lily counters, unexpectedly firm in the face of my intensity. "Whatever happened between you two, she clearly needs space."
Space. The concept is foreign to me. When I want something, I pursue it without hesitation, without pause. Distance is an obstacle to be eliminated, not respected.
But Sophie isn't a business deal. Isn't an acquisition target. Isn't a problem to be solved through sheer force of will and resources.
My phone buzzes incessantly—my assistant, undoubtedly, informing me that the board is waiting, that decisions need to be made, that millions hang in the balance. I silence it without looking.
"Please," I say to Lily, the word unfamiliar on my tongue. "I need to explain something she misunderstood. Something important."
Lily studies me, skepticism evident. "You mean the Europe thing?"
So Sophie has spoken to her. Recently. "Yes. It's not what she thinks."
"And what does she think?" Lily challenges.
"That I've been pursuing her while planning to leave. That she's temporary. Disposable." The words taste bitter, wrong. So far from the truth it's almost laughable, except there's nothing humorous about the pain in Sophie's eyes when she walked away.
