Page 106 of Yours Until Forever

We’restill here.

27

@thetea_gasp

Bestie,say sike rn! Breaking news is that our favorite morally grey zaddy is headline bait and it’s giving Joe Goldberg in couture. Like, we always knew @gageblack had “I’ll ruin you for anyone else” energy. He’s the Black brother with the stare that makes grown women forget why they ever thought red flags were a problem, the vibe that says “I could run a company or a criminal empire”, and the mouth that probably saysthings we can’t print without getting banned. And we were here for it. Obsessed. Unwell. Spiritually on our knees. But now? He’s serving “I’ll track your location, install cameras, and monologue about how it’s for your safety” energy. Rumors are flying that Gage’s little PR “situation” is getting darker. Like, sex club owner + obsession kink + potentially dangerous levels of possessive darker. And girl. THE COLLAR. Ya’ll saw it, right??? The sleek silver one @ameliasinclair’s been wearing? Bestie, thatis NOT from Tiffany’s. That is a “you belong to me” collar, and WE KNOW IT. Which...hot. BUT. Also...help??? Because now people are whispering. About the clubs. About control. About what Gage might be like behind closed doors. So yeah. We’re not saying Amelia should be worried...But we are saying we’re downloading Citizen and watching this like it’sYou: Billionaire Edition. Would we still crawl back to Gage Black and call it feminism? Absolutely. Are we concerned that his idea of foreplay might include blackmail. Also yes. #CollarWatch #AmeliaBlinkTwice #StockholmSyndromSoftLaunch?

28

Gage

I read over the reports my CFO sent through overnight and lean back in my chair and scrub a hand down my face. The numbers aren’t catastrophic. Not yet. But the pattern is there. Subtle. Steady. Sliding in the wrong direction. A handful of high-tier clients have quietly withdrawn over the last month. More are asking questions. And that’s something I’ve never seen in my company and don’t plan to accept now.

I started building this company after finishing my degree. My father thought I was slumming it. He wanted me to be like Bradford and join the family’s textile empire. I couldn’t think of anything more soul-destroying. I knew I was building the only future that wouldn’t bore me to death.

I did a few years working for a top intelligence firm, saw the holes in how they operated, built a black-book contact list, and used seed money from my trust fund. I started small but carved a niche by being the guy who could make problems disappear.

Now, we’re a global intelligence firm trusted by corporations, billionaires, and governments. We locate threats. Track assets. Gather intel. Offer protection and retaliation services. Corporate and political cleanup. We’re the kind of firm people whisper about in boardrooms and war rooms. The kind you call when something goes wrong that can’t be leaked, fixed, or forgiven.

And yet here I am. Falling behind on work for the first time in my life and watching numbers trend the wrong way. I’ve built an empire by never missing a threat. And I’ve let one grow right under my fucking nose.

Looking at the numbers now, and knowing the hours, the blood, the obsession it took to build this up from the ground? Yeah. This burns.

The fucking bad press needs to be stopped.

And I need to get my eye back on the fucking ball.

I spend the next few hours in back-to-back calls. Department heads. PR leads. My top operatives. I’ve built this company to run without me micromanaging every detail, but when it matters? They answer to me. And right now, seeing the numbers, I know I haven’t been checking in the way I usually do.

Just after lunch, Lucy buzzes me.

“Ah, Gage, I think you have a situation out here. One that needs gentle hands. Not your usual.”

“The fuck?” I check my watch. I’ve got three minutes until I go into another meeting with my CFO to drill down deeper into the numbers. “Whatever it is, you handle it.”

“Yeah, see, that’s not going to work this time. It’s Amelia, and the way those tears are streaming down her cheeks screamsI need my man right now. Just sayin’.”

Fuck.

My chair’s shoved back and I’m out the door, andfuck me, I’ve never seen Amelia like this. She’s sitting in one of the visitors chairs across from Lucy’s desk, crying—shoulders tight,hands clenching in her lap like she’s bracing for impact. The kind of posture that says the fear of God isn’t just in her eyes, it’s crawling through her entire body.

She stands the second she spots me, and we meet in the middle.

“What the fuck’s happened and who the fuck do I need to kill?” My chest is squeezing with anger, the fucking ropable kind, at the thought of someone hurting Amelia.

Her hands grab my hips like they’re the only anchor she has. “It’s James,” she starts, but her tears get the better of her and she can’t get another word out. All she can do is hold me like I’m the only thing keeping her upright. Her expression says this situation is DEFCON 1 level, and yeah, I caught that already.

That fucking motherfucker.

I swear toChristI will end him.

I tell Lucy to cancel my meeting and take Amelia into my office.

Once I settle her on the couch, I rein it all in—the fury, the instincts, the need to fix—and give her what she needs instead. Gentle hands, like Lucy said. And fuck, it nearly kills me to stay calm when every part of me is ready to burn the world down.

“What did he do?”

She works her way through some sobs that get caught in her throat before taking a deep breath. “He came to my place,” she chokes out. “He just...he just walked in like he owned it. Lied to the doorman to get through.”

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