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The door opens again. This time it's Caleb, and his expression suggests Jenna called in reinforcements.
“You look like someone who just discovered money can't buy everything.” He drops into the chair across from me. “It's disturbing.”
“Did you need something?”
“Several things. Dominic is pissed, says your tanking the Nakamura timeline. Harris is making noise about the Carmichael phase two changes. And you're wearing two different shoes.”
I glance down. He's right. One black Oxford, one brown. Christ.
“Also,” he continues, “you've been a disaster for three days. Jenna's fielding complaints from every internationalteam. Apparently, you've been hanging up on people mid-sentence.”
“I’m sick of listening.”
“Then maybe you should start talking,” Caleb says. “To the person who actually matters.”
“I have,” I say, loosening my tie for the fifth time in an hour. “Twelve texts in the past three days. Eighteen unanswered calls. Flowers so big she could live in them.”
“Try something new,” Caleb suggests dryly. “Like showing up.”
I shake my head. “She doesn't want to see me. She's so furious she can't think straight.”
“Probably,” he agrees, because of course he does. “But how she's feeling now doesn't change how she felt about you. You're the only person who can fix this.”
“I’m trying. Told her I'd already revised the second phase, that I secured her position?—”
“Ah.” His voice carries understanding. “And she wasn't impressed by your selective salvation.”
I turn sharply. “I was protecting her career. I thought that was what she wanted.”
“You were protecting the woman you're sleeping with while planning to fire everyone she cares about.” He shrugs. “Not exactly a Nicholas Sparks moment.”
“When did you become a relationship expert?”
“When my best friend started walking around with mismatched shoes and hanging up on Tokyo.” He stands, joining me at the window. “You know what your problem is?”
“Please, enlighten me.”
“You're trying to have it both ways. Keep the girl and keep being the same ruthless bastard who built thisempire.” He gestures at the city below. “But she's showing you that's not possible.”
“So what do you suggest? I throw away everything I've built?”
“I suggest you figure out what actually matters.” His voice takes on an edge I rarely hear. “You have more money than God, Bennett. You own buildings you've never visited. Art you've never looked at. Cars you've never driven. And for what?”
“It's not about the money?—”
“Bullshit. It's always been about the money. About proving you're not that kid from Southie who lost everything.” He turns to face me fully. “But guess what? You did it. You won. You're richer than the people who looked down on you. More powerful than the ones who said you'd never make it. So now what?”
The question hangs between us, uncomfortable in its simplicity.
“She doesn't want me,” I say quietly. “Not as I am.”
“Then change.”
“Into what?”
“Into someone who sees beyond spreadsheets. Someone who understands that companies are made of people with mortgages and kids and dreams.” He pauses. “Someone who can say 'I love you' back when a woman is brave enough to say it first.”
The words hit like a physical blow. “I couldn't?—”