Page 20 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
I had managed to keep the company intact, but the cost had been enormous. Not just financially—though rebuildinghad required every resource I could marshal—but emotionally. The realization that I had been played so completely, that my judgment had been so compromised by what I thought was love, had left me unable to trust my own instincts about people.
"You've been punishing yourself," Nick said quietly. "Working eighteen-hour days, avoiding any kind of personal life, keeping everyone at arm's length."
"I've been focused."
"You've been hiding."
The accuracy of his assessment stung more than I wanted to admit. I had told myself that my isolation was strategic, that keeping personal and professional lives separate was a necessary lesson learned from experience. But Nick was right—I had been hiding behind work, using the demands of building the business as an excuse to avoid the risk of genuine connection.
"Maybe," I said. "But hiding has been working for me."
"Has it?" Nick's voice carried skepticism. "Because from where I'm standing, it looks a lot more jaded and bitter than it used to be."
We had reached the section of the path that curved around the baseball fields, where pickup games were in progress despite the heat. The crack of bats against balls punctuated the afternoon air, along with the shouts of players and the cheers of spectators. It was the kind of uncomplicated joy I had forgotten existed—competition for its own sake, effort expended without calculation of return on investment.
"I need something different," I said. "I need to feel alive again."
"You could feel alive and still run the company. Work-life balance isn't a foreign concept. Take vacations. Date someone. Find hobbies that don't involve spreadsheets."
Nick's suggestions were reasonable, the kind of advice any therapist or life coach might offer. But they missed thefundamental problem—I didn't want to find balance within my current life. I wanted to burn it down and start over, to chase something that would make me feel the way I used to feel before cynicism and caution had become my default settings. To feel what Ivy Whitmore made me feel one single night in her father's backyard, that I had tasted long after the pain of Meranda had faded and yet I had yet to find it anywhere else since.
"It's not that simple," I said.
"Why not?"
The question hung between us as we approached the fountain at the center of the park. Other runners had stopped there to rest and hydrate, taking advantage of the shade provided by surrounding trees. I slowed my pace, my legs grateful for the opportunity to recover, and pulled out the water bottle I had been carrying.
The fountain itself was an elaborate Victorian structure, multiple tiers of carved stone with water cascading from level to level. Benches surrounded it in a wide circle, most occupied by people seeking relief from the afternoon heat. I found an empty spot and sat down, letting my breathing slow while Nick settled beside me.
"Because balance assumes I want to keep doing what I'm doing," I said, unscrewing the cap on my water bottle. "What if the problem isn't that I'm working too much? What if the problem is that the work itself has stopped meaning anything to me?"
Nick took a long drink from his own bottle before responding. "Then you find work that does mean something. You don't have to abandon everything you've built. You could shift focus, take on different kinds of projects, use your resources to tackle problems that actually matter to you."
The suggestion had merit, but it still felt inadequate. I had spent four years rebuilding Walsh Strategic into somethingstable and profitable, four years proving that I could succeed despite Meranda's betrayal. The idea of maintaining that success while gradually transitioning into something more meaningful made practical sense.
But I didn't want practical anymore. I wanted to feel the kind of electricity I had experienced in the elevator with Ivy on Friday morning—that sudden surge of awareness, that reminder that I was capable of feeling something beyond professional satisfaction. I wanted to chase that sensation, to see where it might lead, to remember what it felt like to take risks for reasons that had nothing to do with quarterly profits.
Of course, I couldn't tell Nick any of that. The situation with Ivy was too complicated, too fraught with potential consequences, too reminiscent of the mistakes I had made with Meranda. Admitting that I was considering upending my entire life because of a five-minute conversation in an elevator would make me sound unstable at best, delusional at worst.
"Maybe," I said instead, draining the rest of my water.
Nick studied my face, clearly recognizing that I was holding something back. His expression carried the same careful assessment he used during board meetings when he sensed that important information was being withheld.
"There's something else," he said. "Something you're not telling me."
Before I could respond, movement across the plaza caught my attention. An older couple was making their way slowly along one of the paved walkways, the woman seated in a wheelchair while the man pushed her forward with obvious care. Even at a distance, I recognized Bill Whitmore's distinctive profile—the rigid posture, the expensive casual clothes, the way he carried himself even when engaged in something as simple as an afternoon outing.
The woman in the wheelchair had to be Barbara, though she looked far more fragile than I remembered. Her blonde hair was covered by a soft scarf, and even from fifty yards away I could see that she had lost weight. The realization was shocking—Barbara Whitmore was seriously ill, more so than I knew.
"I'll be right back," I told Nick, standing and walking toward them before he could ask questions.
Bill saw me approaching when I was still twenty feet away. His expression shifted from mild curiosity to something darker, a tightening around his eyes that suggested my presence was unwelcome. He stopped pushing the wheelchair and waited for me to reach them, his body language defensive and closed.
"Duncan," he said, his voice carrying none of the warmth that had characterized our interactions over the past fifteen years.
"Bill. Barbara." I leaned down to kiss Barbara's cheek, noting how thin her face had become. "How are you feeling?"
Barbara smiled up at me with the grace that had always defined her, though I could see the exhaustion in her eyes. "Some days are better than others. The doctors are optimistic, and that's what matters."
