Page 71 of Unlocking Melodies

"Clearly," my father cut him off smoothly. "Just as you didn't realize that while you've been questioning my son's commitment, he's increased our market share by twelve percent and secured three groundbreaking patents. Tell me, Reuben, what exactly have you contributed during this time besides skepticism?"

The silence that followed was deafening. I kept my expression neutral, but watching Reuben squirm under my father's verbal dissection was admittedly satisfying.

"These quarterly projections speak for themselves," I continued, letting the numbers flash across their screens – irrefutable evidence of success that even Reuben couldn't dismiss. I'd learned long ago that in corporate warfare, data was the best armor, but having Harrison Cole verbally eviscerate your opponents certainly added an extra layer of protection.

"Perhaps," my father added, his smile sharp enough to cut glass, "we should be discussing your recent investment decisionsinstead, Reuben. I find those far more concerning than my son's management choices."

“While you've all been concerned about my location,” I continued, “our second division has secured three new patents, our market share has increased by twelve percent, and yes, I have managed to judge exactly zero pie contests.”

“Yet,” someone muttered, though I couldn't identify which screen it came from.

“The point is,” I pressed on, “this company doesn't need me sitting in a Manhattan office to thrive. It needs innovation, vision, and occasionally” – I glanced at Reuben's increasingly red face – “the courage to look beyond our usual horizons.”

“If there are no other concerns about our actual business operations,” I said into the uncomfortable silence, “I believe we all have work to do. The integration specs are in your inboxes. I expect full reviews by tomorrow's meeting.”

One by one, the video windows blinked out, leaving only Reuben's scowling face.

“This isn't over,” he said, trying for ominous but achieving something closer to petulant.

“It never is with you, Reuben.” I allowed myself a small smile. “Don't forget to read those specs. There will be a quiz.”

After his window finally darkened, I loosened my tie and looked out at the town square coming to life. Sarah's morning rush was in full swing, and Jimmy had moved on to helping Mrs. Henderson with what appeared to be tactical garden arrangements.

My phone rang immediately after the board meeting – Mia, because the universe apparently decided I hadn't had enough corporate crisis for one morning.

“Well, that was a bloodbath,” she said, her keyboard clicking rapidly in the background. “Though watching Reuben turn that particular shade of purple was almost worth it.”

“Tell that to my blood pressure.” I loosened my tie further, watching Jimmy help Sarah with deliveries through my window. “How bad is the fallout?”

“Your father's asking questions. The kind that usually means he's about to step in.” Her voice softened slightly. “Ethan... they need you in New York. Actually need you, not just Reuben throwing a power tantrum.”

“I'll deal with it,” I said, my voice tight with frustration as I slammed my laptop closed. The sound made Mrs. Henderson jump slightly in her surveillance position, nearly dropping her opera glasses.

Grabbing my jacket, I headed for the door, but stopped at my reflection in the mirror. Perfect suit, perfect tie, perfect mask – all of it feeling more like a costume than armor now.

“When's the earliest I can be in New York?” I asked Mia, knowing her answer would shatter whatever plans I'd had for uncovering Gary's true motives.

"Your father's jet is on standby," she said quietly. "He thought you might need it."

Of course he did. Harrison Cole never left anything to chance, especially not his son's inevitable return to the corporate fold.

"Tell him to save the jet fuel," I replied, gathering my keys. "Oakwood Grove is just a three-hour drive away. And right now..." I paused, looking out at the city skyline that suddenly felt less like home and more like a gilded cage, "right now, I need those three hours to think."

Looking out the window one last time, I caught Jimmy's eye as he glanced up. His smile – genuine, unguarded, everything my world wasn't – made my chest tight. He had no idea that while he was rebuilding his life piece by piece, mine was threatening to fracture under the weight of secrets and obligations.

Some wars couldn't be won. They could only be survived.

The ranch's gravel driveway crunched under my car’s tires, late afternoon sun turning everything golden. For once, I was grateful for my corporate-trained composure because nothing in my extensive business experience had prepared me for the sight that greeted me.

Leaning against the fence, looking impossibly casual in worn jeans and a flannel shirt, was Elliot Blue. The Elliot Blue. My brain did a complete system reset, like someone had dumped coffee on my mental motherboard.

I'd spent countless college nights watching his races, analyzing his strategies – not that I'd ever admit that to anyone. And okay, maybe there had been a poster in my dorm room. One poster. Which absolutely did not influence my decision to hang it facing my desk for “inspirational purposes.”

He straightened as I approached, and suddenly I was very aware that I was about to shake hands with the man who'd revolutionized racing strategy. The same hands that had gripped steering wheels through five championship victories were now extended toward me in casual greeting.

“You must be Ethan,” he said, his easy charm making my carefully maintained CEO persona feel stiff in comparison. “I've heard a lot about you.”

I managed to shake his hand without visibly fanboying, which felt like a victory worthy of its own championship trophy. “Likewise,” I replied, proud that my voice maintained its professional steadiness despite my inner teenager having what could only be described as a complete meltdown.

---