Page 2

Theo

The Mark Hotel looms before me, and my excitement ticks up. I need this night with Ginny. Mackenzie has driven me crazy all day. Her short skirt. Her tight sweater. And those shoes… As I stride through the revolving doors, the familiar sight of polished marble and lilies greets me. Yet tonight, something feels off.

Where’s Ginny?

I glance at my watch, and she’s late, which is uncharacteristic. I ran home and changed, but I’m here on time. Did Mackenzie tell her we’d meet in the hotel bar? I weave through clusters of guests, each absorbed in their own worlds of laughter with drinks in their hands, until I reach our usual spot by the bar. It’s empty. I check my phone again—no messages, no calls. This never happens.

“Maybe she’s just caught in traffic,” I mutter. Patience has always been a virtue of mine, yet unease settles over me.

I pull out my phone and text Ginny.

Me: My lovely, where are you?

She doesn’t respond. After another ten minutes of scanning every face that enters the hotel, reality sets in. She’s not coming. Or maybe she’s already in the suite. The last time we were here, we had a fantastic time in the tub.

I head to the front desk, ready to go up and enjoy a night of debauchery after this hiccup.

“Good evening, Mr. Reed,” the front desk clerk greets me. “How may I assist you?”

“Evening. I should have a suite booked,” I tell her, offering her my credit card without waiting for a prompt. Efficiency is key in these minor setbacks.

Her fingers dance across the keyboard, eyes flickering back and forth from the screen to my card. Then she frowns, and that’s when I know tonight’s hiccups are about to become a full-blown choke.

“I’m sorry, Mr. Reed, but I don’t see a reservation under your name for tonight.” She sounds surprised, as if this revelation is as new to her as it is to me.

“Really? That can’t be right,” I counter. “Would you be so kind to check again, please?” I wink at her, and she blushes.

She smiles and touches her hair before typing with more fervor this time, but the result is the same—a shake of her head, apologetic yet firm. “We don’t have your usual suite available, but we have the Franciscan Suite with views of San Francisco, if you’d like. I’m sure it’s just a mix up on our end.”

“Never mind,” I say, sliding my card back into my wallet with a tight smile. “There must be some mistake, and I’m sure it’s on my end. Thank you for looking.”

Turning away from the desk, the frustration burns within me. Tonight was supposed to be seamless, yet here I am, stood up and without a room, my carefully constructed evening unraveling at the seams.

I send a text to Austin.

Me: Up for a drink tonight?

Austin: You are my life saver. Danica, her sister, and her friend are here. I’ll meet you wherever.

Me: How about The Treasury in the financial district?

Austin: See you there.

Me: I’ll save you a seat.

Phillip, my driver, dropped me here at the hotel, and I sent him home for the night, so I call a rideshare to get across town. I picked The Treasury because it’s within walking distance of my condo, and it’s not our usual hangout. I want to look at fresh faces.

I push open the heavy, polished door of the cocktail lounge and step into a sea of tailored suits and silk ties. The rhythmic clink of ice against fine glassware sets a symphony for the financial district’s elite as they unwind from their market battles. I can’t help but smirk at the stark contrast—their formality with my laid-back startup attire. My khaki pants almost feel rebellious here, the hip sneakers a silent protest, and even my custom shirt doesn’t bridge the gap between our worlds.

Slipping through the crowd, I claim a shadowed corner booth with a strategic view. Women in sleek dresses and sharp heels move among the suits. But as I watch them, none stir anything in me. They’re all aesthetics, no spark.

“Thanks again. You have no idea how much I owe you,” Austin says, arriving with his signature easy grin. He slides into the booth opposite me, bringing with him an air of relief.

“Anytime,” I reply, still feeling the sting of tonight’s fiasco. “Mason said this was the place for bourbon.” I signal for the server, who approaches. “Two glasses of the Old Rip Van Winkle twenty-five-year-old neat, please,” I say, looking forward to the smooth burn.

Her eyebrows arch, clearly not expecting such an order from someone who isn’t familiar. Without missing a beat, I hand over my American Express Black card, its limitless potential not lost on her. She nods, professionalism masking her surprise, and offers us the menu for light snacks.

“Let’s just start with the drinks,” I tell her, dismissing the menu with a wave of my hand. I want nothing to dilute the upcoming indulgence.

Austin tells me about his wife’s sister, who’s in town from France. He was outnumbered and uninterested in their plans. “I’ll have to pay for that later, but I won’t mind,” he says with a twinkle in his eyes.

I know he’s talking about getting laid, and again, I’m reminded that I was going to spend tonight between Ginny’s long, lovely legs, but instead, I’m at a bar in the financial district.

The server returns with our drinks. The twenty-five-hundred-dollar-a-glass bourbon comes in a special Waterford crystal tumbler and has a lot of eyes on us as the server places them on the table.

We toast to EnergiFusion, our company, like we always do, because we know we are the luckiest of the lucky to have built a successful startup without having to go public.

The amber liquid swirls in my glass. I take a sip, savoring the hit of the bourbon as it goes down, and then lean back into the leather booth. Austin’s eyes are on me, probing, and I know he’s about to dive into territories I’d rather avoid.

“So, what happened with your Thursday-night plans?” he asks, his tone casual but eyes sharp.

A sigh escapes me. “I asked Mackenzie to make a reservation, confirm my date for tonight… And when I showed up, nothing. No room, no date.”

His brow furrows.

“Was Mackenzie ever an issue for you?” I ask.

Austin chuckles, shaking his head as he fishes out his phone. “Never, because I never mixed personal tasks with work ones.” He swipes through the screen, a touch of pride in his voice. “Danica and I have a personal assistant, Natalie Hunter. She organizes everything—appointments, travel, even liaising with our chef for nights in.”

That stops me mid-sip. A personal assistant? This is what Mackenzie was talking about. My brows knit as I process the notion. I have a concierge in my building, but it never occurred to me to get someone to organize my personal life. “How did I not know about this?”

Austin shakes his head. “She’s amazing. We want to go to the Galapagos Islands, and she’s done all the research and presented us with plans. We loved it. Simple as that. Now we just have to figure out when we can go.”

“Sounds like a dream.” I nod, already envisioning the ease that kind of help could bring to my life. “I’ll reach out to her tomorrow, see if she can take on another client or recommend someone.”

“Good call.” Austin nods, taking a drink of his bourbon.

Just then, his gaze drifts past my shoulder, a knowing smile creeping to his lips. “Looks like you’ve caught someone’s eye,” he teases, gesturing with his chin.

I turn, spotting a woman whose gaze flickers away the moment our eyes meet. Beautiful, sure, but I’m not in the mood. “Not interested right now,” I say, turning back to face Austin.

His expression shifts. “What’s going on with you and Mackenzie?”

“Nothing,” I reply.

“Does HR need to get involved?” There’s genuine concern in his question.

“No, that’s unnecessary,” I retort.

His skepticism is palpable, but some stones are best left unturned, some truths better kept in the shadows. He studies me a moment longer, his eyes searching, but I remain an open book with pages glued shut. He doesn’t press further, choosing instead to raise his glass. “Here’s to a better day tomorrow,” he toasts.

“Cheers to that,” I echo, clinking my glass against his. Though this isn’t so bad. The smooth taste of Kentucky’s finest is a comfort, and it’s just us and the bourbon—no complications, no disappointments—only the simple pleasure of old friends sharing a damn good drink.

A little while later, I swirl the remnants of my second glass of bourbon, watching as it coats the sides with a golden sheen before settling back down.

“Hey, you think Rhys is even giving work a second thought right now?” I ask, lifting my eyes to Austin. The idea of our colleague basking in matrimonial bliss seems alien tonight, yet it pulls a smile to my face.

Austin lets out a hearty laugh, tipping his head back. “Not a chance,” he assures me, shaking his head. “The guy’s forgotten his own name by now, let alone electric vehicle batteries.”

“Good for him.” I feel a twinge of envy, imagining the freedom that comes with such an escape. “I’ll be ready for him to come back and take the reins again, though. Feels like steering a ship in a storm without him.”

“Speaking of steering…” Austin sets down his glass with deliberate care. “I’m about ready for Justin to pull his head out of his ass and get back. We need all hands on deck, not just the ones playing nice.”

Justin Capriotti, one of EnergiFusion’s founders and our original CEO, left us and his marriage over two years ago now without any sort of explanation. After some time had passed, we thought he was communicating with us, but we’ve since learned that all the emails and voicemails were fake. It was a devastating blow and only added to the confusion of all of this. None of it makes any sense, and we are desperate to have him back, to understand why. And more and more, worry has started to mix in with my annoyance. There’s just no explanation for what he’s done. So maybe it wasn’t his choice. I pray every day that he’s okay.

I nod, acknowledging the truth in Austin’s words. There’s only so much dodging and weaving our team can do before someone needs to step up and chart the course straight. “Yeah,” I murmur. “It’s time for everyone to show up.”

Our glasses clink as we toast to absent friends and the hope of a return to normalcy ahead. With each sip of the rich, amber liquid, I find a bit more resolve settling in my chest. Whatever storms may come, we’ll weather them. And soon I’ll have my own Natalie Hunter to keep my life organized.

As the hour grows later, we say goodbye, and I walk the three blocks back to my condo. I’m still upset about my plans for tonight. Mackenzie . I can’t believe she just chose not to do what I’d asked. I mean, I guess she told me she wasn’t going to do it. Next time, I’ll believe her.

I pull the door open, and Simon Rankin, the evening building concierge, stands to greet me. “Good evening, Mr. Reed.”

“Hey, Simon. How’d the Vancouver Canucks do today?”

“They’ve disappointed us again,” he says.

“Sorry to hear that. There’s always next year.”

He shakes his head. “And next year never comes.”

I pull out my fob, and the elevator whisks me to the forty-seventh floor and my penthouse.

Once inside my high-rise sanctuary, I shed my coat like I’m trying to peel away the night’s frustrations. The sleek lines of the condo, usually so calming, now seem mocking in their orderly perfection. I pour myself a tall glass of cold water and sit on my couch that overlooks the Bay Bridge and the San Francisco Bay.

My mind returns to Mackenzie.

I should fire her. The thought dances through my mind, but it’s tangled with red tape. Mackenzie isn’t just any employee. She’s really the acting CEO of the company. She’s the person who keeps us on track, and she’s indispensable in ways that make such a move complicated. And stupid. Plus, this isn’t really my job. I’m just filling in. I’d have a lot to explain, which I’d rather not.

My computer pings with an email from Mackenzie, Heading home now , it reads, succinct to the point of indifference. Don’t forget your breakfast tomorrow morning .

What is she still doing at work? It’s after nine o’clock. The office is long empty by this hour.

I lean back on my couch, the water untouched, the glass sweating onto the dark wood of the table. Rationality suggests there could be a hundred benign reasons for Mackenzie’s late departure. But rationality reminds me that today was busy, and she’s just doing her job to make sure I’m where I’m supposed to be on Tuesday morning.

I move to my home office and flick the mouse, awakening the screen to reveal my calendar in all its color-coded tyranny. The cursor hovers over tomorrow’s first appointment, a glaring red block that reads: “7:30 AM - Breakfast with Austin, Jim, Mason. Sunny Side Up, Pacific Heights.” I let out a groan that echoes off the high ceilings of my condo, dragging my hand down my face in frustration.

“Damn it,” I mutter, clicking through to cancel the morning’s gym session. There goes my chance to work off the stress that’s knotted every muscle tight. I’ll have to talk to Marco about shifting our sessions—if he can even accommodate me. My schedule while I’m covering for Rhys is more of a straitjacket each day.

In the stillness, my mind betrays me, wandering down a path lined with memories of Mackenzie. That night surfaces. Her laughter filled the space between us, easy and genuine, and her eyes sparked with a fire that matched my own. We’d danced around each other for months, but that night we collided, a perfect storm. And she was…amazing.

A sigh escapes, laden with regret. When I’d confessed my excitement to Crystal, rather than offering friendly support, she’d whispered caution into my ear, branding me selfish, warning that starting something with Mackenzie could only lead to a mess or a lawsuit. I listened, fool that I am, and I’ve been tasting that regret every day since.

The glow from the City below casts shadows across my living room, and I see a flicker of what might have been—a different kind of life, one where I don’t spend my nights alone with a drink and a grudge, one where Mackenzie might have been more than just a memory. But dreams are for the sleeping, and I’m awake.