THIRTY-EIGHT
Jesse
Ford is still talking.
Just my luck that today is the day my normally precise, to-the-point, waste-no-time CEO brother would decide to circle around his point for close to an hour. This entire meeting could have been an email. My leg bounces under the conference table, the constant, rhythmic motion the only thing keeping me from snapping.
Wes is leaned back in his chair, arms crossed, eyes focused. Noah’s flipping a pen between his fingers, tracking Ford’s words, making the occasional note. Normally, I’d be right there with them—locked in, attentive, all business. Today, my attention is elsewhere.
My eyes keep drifting to the clock mounted on the wall behind Ford’s head. Every second ticks by louder than the last. Down the hall, Madeline is at the shared worktable. I know exactly where she’ll be—second chair from the window, coffee on her right, hair tucked behind one ear while she works. The image is so clear it’s like I’m standing right in front of her. Except I’m not. I’m stuck here in this boardroom.
I need to talk to her.
Not a quick hallway check-in. Not a polite smile across the office. I need her alone, no distractions. I need to be able to look her in the eye and say the things I haven’t been able to find the right words for.
Ford finally pauses, scanning the room like he’s waiting for feedback. I give him nothing. I don’t trust my voice not to betray how badly I want out of this room.
“Got it. Anything else?” Noah asks, mercifully.
Ford hesitates. “No,” he says at last. “That’s it.”
Relief floods me so fast it’s almost dizzying. I push back from the table before anyone can change their mind, chair legs scraping a little too loudly against the floor.
I need to see her.
The last thirty-six hours have been a mess of hospital lights, cycling thoughts, and long ago buried memories. Through it all, Madeline’s face keeps replaying in my mind. The hurt she tried to hide, the space I felt opening between us when I didn’t follow her inside. I told myself it was temporary. That it was necessary. Now it just feels like a mistake.
I head straight for where she should be, but the worktable is empty. I double back to her desk, peering into the break room as I pass in case she’s stopped there for a coffee refill. I circle the entire office, but I don’t find a trace of her.
I make a beeline for Becca and Marco, who are huddled together at his desk.
“Hey,” I say, sharper than I mean to. “Where’s Madeline?”
Becca blinks up at me, surprised, then lifts one brow. “Shouldn’t you know?” she says lightly. “You kind of run the place.”
Marco smirks into his coffee.
“I’ve been looking for her,” I continue, ignoring Becca’s remark. “She’s not here.”
“No,” she says slowly. “She took today off.”
“Took it off,” I repeat. “Why?”
Becca shrugs. “Family thing?” Then, like it’s an afterthought, “She flew out this morning.”
My stomach drops.
“Where?” I ask, already knowing I won’t like the answer.
“Bluewater, I think?”
The word lands like a punch.
Bluewater.Her parents. The gala. Elliot. Fuck.
I nod once because my mind is spiralling and that’s all I’m capable of right now. Becca keeps talking, something about her covering a meeting and Marco picking up Madeline’s afternoon calls, but I don’t hear any of it. All I can think about is the fact that I should’ve called her last night. I should’ve said something—anything—instead of letting the space between us grow.
Now she’s gone. She’s on her own, headed straight into the mess I promised I would help her with.
