Page 5 of The Unplanned Wedding

"What time?" I sense his surprise, since I can’t make out his features. "Lunch. What time do you want it?" I prompt.

"One p.m. and?—"

"I won’t be late." I ignore the scowl on his face, then spin around and walk back the way I came. When I reach the door, I grab the handle, twist it, and push the door open, then pause.

If I’m going to survive this role, then I need to let him know I’m not a pushover. I need him to understand that I’m not scared of his bluster or his domineering manner. I square my shoulders, then half turn and fix my gaze on the shadow that is him.

"Oh, by the way," I say in a tone that I hope conveys confidence. "I don’t scare easily, Knox Davenport. Question is, do you?"

2

Knox

She leaves, and I scowl after her.Did she have the last word?A first. That has never happened before with any of my employees. Never. Not even with my platoon in the Marines.Doesn't she realize I can fire her?

I draw in a sharp breath, and the lingering scent of coffee reaches me. I turn toward my desk and, like a homing pigeon, move toward it. I snatch the cup and down it. It leaves a trail of warmth in its wake, dispelling some of the chill creeping over my skin since she left. It feels good that she stood up to me. It’s the first spark of interest I’ve felt toward any woman in a long time.

Unlike those before her, who were unable to look me in the face without flinching, she didn’t hesitate to meet my gaze. I knit my brows. I ensured I stepped into the light so she could see my scarred features, but she didn’t react. In fact, she held her ground. I rub my chin. I need an efficient assistant; it’s the only way to increase my productivity. But so far, no one has been able to keep up with me, so why should she be any different?

So what, if she has more gumption than the rest of my employees? Sowhat, if she isn’t put off by my disfigured visage, or that there’s a thread of awareness between us...? It doesn’t mean anything.

She’s a paid minion, and nothing more. She won’t be able to deal with my demands and, just like everyone else, she'll resign before daylight fades outside.

I push aside thoughts of her and, grabbing my tablet, join my video conference call.

After a few minutes, I've had it with this spineless, indecisive group. I interrupt, "Gather the staff; you know the drill. Sell off the loss-making units. Then auction the profitable divisions." My decree is greeted by silence.

Then Ravi, the most senior person on my team, clears his throat. "There’s a chance to turn this company around. Why not build it up, then sell it off and make more money, without people losing their jobs?"

"That’s going to take time—" He begins to speak, but I interrupt him, "Time I don’t have.” He and the others look around uncomfortably. Then I add, “Get it done." I disconnect the call and toss the device onto the desk.

I'm sure they think I don’t have any compassion. What they don’t realize is that the company we’re taking over is in the business of publishing newspapers, which is in sharp decline. Sure, we could try to build it back up, but the money we’d pump in would end up hurting the parent company, without any visible results. This would, in turn, affect the jobs of everyone on the call.

The difficult decision I’m making might hurt in the short term, but eventually, it will ensure the survival of this company and the roles that go with it. As for the jobs that will be lost in the takeover? That's why gathering the employees is the first step. Where possible, I’ll find these employees opportunities in other group companies. I’ll offer them the opportunity to retrain and find roles within our digital media divisions.

I also plan to offer a voluntary retirement scheme to ensure those who want an early retirement can be paid enough to afford to do so. The rest will receive a healthy pay-off that will buy them time to look for a new job.

These are details I could have gone into with my team, but I don’t have the patience to do so. I prefer action to spending the next half hour walking my team through my plan. I outline my thoughts in an email to my Finance Director and instruct him to share the details with them, instead.

My time is money, and this is the best use of it. I can’t baby my team and waste my time explaining my thoughts. They’re going to have to catch up with me. I’m a strategist. I have the ability to look into the future and think ten steps ahead. I can see the game plan before anyone else, and I have the confidence to execute it with stealth, alacrity, and no emotion. I keep my eye on the target and get things done. It’s why Arthur put me in charge of the media division.

He knew I’d see through the clutter and turn this company around. If that means I come across as an authoritarian and a cold-hearted operator, that's too bad. I roll my shoulders to dispel the knots, not that it helps.

I haven’t slept in more than a week, thanks to the insomnia that's plagued me since I left the Marines. And when I do close my eyes, I’m plagued by the faces of those who didn’t make it back alive. Unlike me.

Survivor’s guilt is real. And despite my logical mind telling me I’m not responsible for the deaths of my brothers in arms, a part of me will always feel I don’t deserve to be back among the civilians when they’re not. It’s a part of me I don’t have control over, and I hate that. Given the choice, I never would have gone on that last mission either. But I wasn’t in charge. And when I lost so many team-members on that tour, I knew my time in the Marines was up. No way, was I going to put myself in a situation again where I didn’t have a say in my future. I crack my neck.

Control. That’s what I value more than anything else. It’s about controlling my situation. About controlling the decisions impacting my life. I’m done with allowing anyone else to direct my destiny. Unfortunately, this doesn’t extend to my ability to rest at night. Turns out, the one thing I can’t control is sleep.

The only place I’ve managed to feel safe enough to get some shuteye is at the family home in Cumbria. It’s isolated enough that I can let myself relax there. The place has been in our family for generations. It’s where I retreated to recover from my injuries. It’s the place where I feel most at home.

When the computer screen begins to fade in front of my eyes, I blink and glance away.

My surroundings take on an added shine—a sure sign that I’m running on empty. Everything seems both blurred and bright at the same time, another sign that I really need to get some sleep. A flash of pain ignitesbehind my eyes. The heaviness in my head expands to meet the flickering pinpricks that pinch at the scars on my cheek. The headache is real, but the feeling of the skin being torn on my face is psychosomatic.

The ravages of PTSD are something very few of us in the service escape from. I open the drawer under my desk, snatch my painkillers, and swallow them dry. It’ll take a few minutes for the pain to recede. I slide into the chair behind my desk and, by the time the door to my office opens, I can breathe without feeling like I’m suffocating.

My new assistant stomps in, then comes to a stop. Her gaze is fixed on me. Her throat moves as she swallows. She stares like she’s seeing my face for the first time—which she is, for despite the fact she took in my features earlier, she’s seeing them in closer proximity now, and it's a full-frontal view, with nothing to soften my façade. The rain has cleared enough for watery sunlight to slant thought the windows. One of the rays falls across my features. I don’t blink. It had to happen at some point; best to get it out of the way now.

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