Page 56 of When Hearts Ignite

P.S. I’d watch Hancock next. I know he said he wouldn’t sell, but things have a strange way of changing around here.

Heaving in a deep breath, I wrack my brain at where things went wrong. In the last nine months, Voss has steadily increased their holdings in TransAmerica, and before this morning, they held ten percent of the shares or proxy votes, mostly acquired from smaller shareholders, but McGinnis is a board member, and he alone held fifteen percent of the company, which makes the loss of his shares devastating in our fight to save TransAmerica. Now, the score is Voss with twenty-five percent, Pietra Capital with twenty percent. Whoever gets over fifty percent first wins.

McGinnis and Hancock, another board member, were the most vocal about keeping TransAmerica away from Voss from what Father told me. His abrupt one-eighty this morning came from nowhere.

How did I miss this? Where did we go wrong?

I pace in front of my desk, the office still eerily quiet. A few muffled coughs travel through the door.

We missed something. Something obvious. There’s no way McGinnis would sell to the scum of the earth, Timothy Voss, over keeping the shares or selling to us. What we offered was more than fair, we even tacked on a premium and discount on investment management fees.

Pressing a button on the phone, I listen to the ringtone of the call connecting.

“Yes, Mr. Kingsley?” Hayley answers promptly, even though I sense a thread of trepidation in her voice.

“Get me everything we have on Hancock.”

“But he’s a loyalist—”

“Things change, Hayley. We just lost McGinnis. We missed something,” I growl, slamming my phone back on the receiver and burying my hands into my hair, tugging at the carefully arranged strands.

Imbeciles. All of them. I might as well do this job myself.

Blowing out a frustrated exhale, I collapse into my chair and close my eyes. An image materializes in my mind, one of many which rotates like a slideshow during random hours of the day. Violet eyes, which glow sapphire in dim lighting. Mischievous glint. Mind as sharp as a tack, noticing problems other miss. Lips spewing out random facts in the early hours of the morning.

Nine months, one week, and three days. That’s how long she has been gone from my life.

My heart stutters before kicking into a frenzied rhythm as my mind drifts to Grace. Her memories have haunted me in the last nine months, keeping me up at night.

An anvil would sit on top of my chest when I walked into the office at the early hours in the morning, my heart clenching when I’d see her empty cubicle. My mind would relive the mornings I had with her, our quiet conversations in the dark, sharing a soggy bagel, which somehow tasted delicious in the faded thoughts of my recollection.

The hole in my chest has widened and deepened and I don’t know how I’m still functioning each day. The yearning in my gut is a visceral jab from an ice pick, so intense I’d wake up in the middle of the night, my body drenched in sweat from fevered dreams with her laughter and smiles keeping me company.

Then the abyss would sweep in, cold and haunting, drowning me without water, and I’d wish I could fall back asleep and dream of her again. I’d give anything to experience the lightness in my chest, the warmth from her brightness, the peace I felt in her presence.

“I don’t need anything in the world. I don’t need success or money. I don’t need my titles or estates. I only need you in my life.” The insane line from the drivel of a romance novel I read over her shoulders that first morning in the office suddenly makes sense, and the realization knocks the wind from my chest, and I grip the desk before me for support.

Emotions are distractions.

Emotions are for the weak.

But why do I want to be carried away in the throes of it with her?

My chest clenches—a phantom ache, the constant companion to the murky hollowness in my rib cage.

Where is she? Why did she vanish? How is she doing? Is she safe? Is she taking care of herself?

More questions, but no answers.

Retrieving my wallet from my pants, I sink into my chair. My eyes feel heavy, another product of a restless night, and I pull out the worn sheet of paper, the size of an index card, which still faintly smells of jasmine.

Her farewell letter.

Unfolding the note from my wallet, I trace my fingers over the feminine, loopy swirls of her handwriting, the only sign she was ever real in my life.

Dear Steven,

I’m sorry I couldn’t tell you this in person. Because of circumstances outside of my control, I had to move and end my time at Pietra early. The last two months have been a dream. I’ve learned so much from you and the team. I was excited to get out of bed each morning and eager for my future. But we don’t always get what we want in life and sometimes, you have to face the sound of the music.

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