Page 4 of Silver Fox's Secret Triplets
The betrayal still cut deep. Not because she'd chosen ambition over whatever we'd had but because I'd allowed myselfto believe that someone could see past the money and the power to find something worth staying for.
"Meranda was seven years ago."
"Was she? Because you've been different ever since. More isolated. More…" He searched for the right word. "Bitter."
I resumed walking toward my office, unwilling to continue this conversation in the hallway where anyone could overhear. Nick followed, his footsteps echoing in the hallway.
"I'm not bitter. I'm realistic."
"You're forty-two years old and you're talking about retirement. That's not realistic. That's running away."
I unlocked my office door and stepped inside, but I didn't invite Nick to follow. He lingered in the doorway, clearly wanting to say more.
"The buyout offer stands until Friday," he said finally. "After that, the board moves forward with or without your approval. Think about what you really want, Duncan. And think about whether hiding from life is going to get you there."
He left without waiting for a response, his words hanging in the air between us. I closed the door and leaned against it, allowing myself a moment to absorb the silence of my office. Floor-to-ceiling windows offered a view of Boston Harbor, where early morning light painted the water silver. Somewhere out there, people were starting their days with purpose and direction. I envied them.
The coffee maker in the corner chimed, programmed to start at half past six whether I was here or not. I poured myself a cup and settled behind my desk, where a manila folder waited with my name written across the tab in my assistant's careful handwriting.
My former assistant's handwriting. She'd quit three weeks ago, citing "creative differences" in her resignation letter. The third assistant to leave in as many months, each one drivenaway by my increasingly short temper and demanding schedule. I couldn't blame them. I'd become the kind of boss I would have hated working for.
I opened the folder and found briefing notes for a client pitch scheduled for next week. The Harrington Group wanted to acquire a chain of boutique hotels in Vermont, and they'd hired Walsh Strategic to navigate the regulatory hurdles and financing complications. It was exactly the kind of straightforward deal I'd built my reputation on, the kind I could handle in my sleep.
Which was probably why I'd been putting off reviewing the materials for two weeks.
I scanned the notes, making perfunctory edits to the strategy outline and flagging potential issues that my team had already identified. The work felt mechanical, devoid of the intellectual challenge that had once energized me. When had I stopped caring about whether the Harrington Group succeeded in their acquisition? When had success become so routine that it no longer satisfied?
I tossed the folder aside and turned to my computer, where forty-seven new emails waited for my attention. Most were internal communications—status updates from project managers, budget approvals from accounting, scheduling requests from various department heads. The machinery of business grinding forward, requiring my input to keep functioning smoothly.
One email caught my attention—an expense report from James Morrison, one of our senior project managers. The numbers looked wrong—too neat, too convenient. I'd learned to trust my instincts about financial irregularities, and something about Morrison's report triggered my internal alarm system.
I printed the report and made a note to follow up with accounting. Corporate theft was rare but not unheard of, and I'd rather investigate a false alarm than ignore a real problem. Thelast thing Walsh Strategic needed was a financial scandal during acquisition talks.
My phone buzzed with a text message from my lawyer.
Board meeting moved to Thursday. Documents ready for review.
The buyout papers. The final step in a process that would transform me from CEO to wealthy retiree in the span of a signature. Nick was right about the market conditions—the offer was more than fair, probably more than I'd get if I waited another year.
But signing those papers felt final in a way that made my chest tighten with anxiety. Once I sold Walsh Strategic, I'd have money and freedom but no purpose. No reason to get up in the morning, no problems to solve, no team depending on my decisions.
No excuse to avoid confronting the emptiness that had been growing inside me for years.
I pushed the thought away and focused on the remaining emails. Legal updates about the acquisition talks, which were progressing smoothly despite my reluctance to provide final approval. Personnel issues that required my input but could have been handled by any competent manager. Invitations to industry events that I'd attend out of obligation rather than interest.
The mundane details of a successful career that no longer felt fulfilling.
My phone rang at eight fifteen, and the caller ID showed the temp agency I'd been working with to find a replacement assistant. Three interviews scheduled for this week had all cancelled, leaving me to handle my own scheduling and correspondence.
"Walsh Strategic, Duncan speaking."
"Mr. Walsh, this is Sarah from Premier Staffing. I'm calling to confirm that you're still looking for administrative support."
"Yes. The sooner, the better."
"Excellent. I have someone who can start Monday morning. She's experienced, professional, and available for long-term placement if you're satisfied with her work."
"Send me her resume."
