Page 71 of Knot Your Sugar

"Nothing?" James echoes, aghast. "But—"

"Elena made herself clear," I remind them gently. "She needs space. And frankly, so do we. Tomorrow is the final competition. We all have roles to fulfill."

"So, we just… ignore her?" Cole asks, his brow furrowed. "Pretend tonight didn't happen?"

"We respect her boundaries," I correct. "We give her the space she’s requested. And after the final tomorrow, we see what happens. But we donotexpect a miracle. In the meantime, no pressure. No… interventions."

James slumps back against the booth, looking utterly defeated. "So, drinks then? To drown our sorrows and collectively mourn the very likely implosion of our nascent pack?" He looks hopefully from me to Cole.

Cole nods slowly. "One more couldn't hurt, I guess. Might help me forget the sound of my heart breaking."

I shake my head. "Thanks, but I’m good. I’ve got an early start, and I’d rather keep a clear head than go for another round." I need to think. To process. To try and disentangle the bewildering knot of instinct, emotion, and… something else… that Elena has so effortlessly tied me into.

After James and Cole depart, presumably in search of more alcohol and mutual commiseration, I remain in the quiet booth. I stare into my scotch, the aged peat and complex notes a familiar comfort in a world that suddenly feels… uncomfortably unfamiliar.

My life is a careful edifice of logic, strategy, and control. I make decisions based on data, on projections, on calculated risk. The Beaumont empire was built on these principles. And yet… this. Elena. With who I have a visceral connection that bypasses strategy and makes a mockery of control. Is it just biology, the primal pull of a scent match? Or is it… something more?

I think back to that moment when I almost told her I might be falling in love with her…My God. Where didthatcome from?

As I finish my scotch and rise from the table, I find myself mentally reviewing my schedule for the coming week with a sigh. Board meetings in Paris. A new acquisition in Singapore. The Chicago boutique planning that had initially been my excuse for accepting this judging position.

My real life, waiting for me to return to it.

This small-town interlude, this whatever-it-was with Elena and these two unlikely companions… it was an anomaly. A pleasant deviation in an otherwise orderly existence.

By this time tomorrow, the competition will be over. A winner crowned. And I'll literally be thousands of feet above it all, returning to my boardrooms, balance sheets and the endless dance of corporate power. A world where relationships are strategic, beneficial alignments rather than messy emotional entanglements.

It's probably for the best. Business is what I'm good at. What I control. What makes sense.

Even if, for a brief moment, I'd started to believe that something else might matter more.

Chapter thirty-seven

James

"Hit me again," I signal, shoving my empty glass across the sticky bartop of The Rusty Spoon. It’s probably drink number five, or maybe six. Who’s counting? Definitely not me. Smart move before the final? Hell no. But after the way Elena looked at me today, smart moves are officially off the table.

The dive bar is packed, a cacophony of clashing music from the jukebox, shouted conversations, and the clatter of pool balls. It's a universe away from the polished veneer of the Harborview, and exactly what I need. A place to get loud, numb, invisible.

Cole, nursing what I swear is still his first beer of the night, sits on the stool beside me.

"You should slow down," he says, his voice a low rumble against the bar’s din.

"You should speed up," I counter, raising the glass in mock toast. "Cheers to fucking everything up." I take a long swallow, the cheap beer doing little to wash away the bitter tang of regret.

"You didn't single-handedly ruin this," Cole says.

"Tell that to Elena." I take another gulp. "Did you see how she looked at me? Like I was some kind of feral animal."

"You growled," replies, deadpan.

"Thank you, Lieutenant Obvious. I was there." I run a hand through my hair, wrecking what little order it had left. "God, I'm such an idiot."

The jukebox belts out a slightly warped 90s rock hit, full of nostalgic charm. On the makeshift dance floor, some festival contestants sway to it, the pressure of tomorrow's competition temporarily forgotten.

"Fuck it," I say, straightening on my barstool. "Who cares anyway? I came here to win. That's what matters. That's always been the plan."

"Is it?" Cole asks quietly.

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