Tarian.
Two hours later…
“See to it that our fishermen on that side of town get a pay increase for their troubles.” I instruct the company’s head accountant.
He nods, fingers gliding across his tablet as he records my words.
“I don’t need more men going on strike when we have a mountain of work ahead of us, especially now that we’re considering expanding our markets.”
The words come out steady, controlled.
Professional.
Inside, I groan.
My eyes drift shut as exhaustion crashes over me in a thick, suffocating wave.
Constant meetings.
Endless negotiations.
Not a single moment to breathe these past few days.
With our public ratings constantly climbing, everyone wants a piece of us.
Partnerships, endorsements, favors.
The higher we rise, the more hands reach for us.
“I’ll see to it, Mr.
Sawyer,” the accountant replies.
Then he hesitates, just slightly.
“Though it’ll take more than a few dollar bills to motivate those men to return to work.”
I open my eyes slowly and fix my gaze on him.
“They need encouragement from you.” He continues carefully.
“Words that assure them they won’t face such a devastating scare at sea again.
Not money that looks like you’re buying their silence.”
The words strike hard.
Sharp, like a slap I don’t see coming.
The words, ‘I don’t control the sea,’ sits right on my tongue, bitter and ready.
But I swallow it.
Because saying it would make me sound heartless, detached and cruel.
And if those words ever reached the men or worse, the public—, t would undo everything we’ve spent years building.
Five days ago, several of our men from that station vanished at sea for twenty four hours.
No signal.
No word.
No sign of their vessel.
Our radios barely managed to scrape through broken transmissions.
Static swallowing half of every message.
I stayed calm on the surface.
Internally, I followed every report, every update, every gut twisting possibility.
I ensured the media stayed blind to the situation.
No leaks.
No panic.
Two days ago, the men were found.
Alive and now on their way back.
Yet their colleagues resumed a strike anyway.
Complete shutdown of operations at that station, even after confirmation that the missing men were safe.
Fear doesn’t respond to logic.
I had a competent team handle the fallout, contain the damage, suppress the strike and the story that would have followed if the news had been leaked out.
And I’m offering a pay increase that will inevitably be misinterpreted.
“All right,” I say at last.
“Send word to them.
I’ll see them Saturday morning.”
My tone leaves no room for discussion.
Tomorrow would’ve been ideal, but tomorrow I’ll be touring Murieann Amran’s property in Nantucket.
A slow, unwelcome thrill coils in my chest at the thought.
I’ve barely been able to focus on anything else these past few hours.
My mind keeps drifting back to her.
The faint scent of her perfume clinging to my senses, the warmth of her skin when she stood far too close.
The glow of her complexion.
Her lips.
The perfect framing of her face.
I shove the distraction away.
I part my lips to speak again when the door suddenly bursts open.
My mother storms in, my secretary stumbling helplessly behind her.
“Sir…I’m so sorry…I tried to tell your mother you were in a meeting…”
“It’s fine,” I say coolly, raising a hand.
“You can leave.”
My secretary bows her head, defeated, and slips out.
The accountant rises immediately.
“I believe I should leave as well, sir,” he says, already retreating.
I nod once, offering him a silent apology.
The door shuts after him.
I rise and turn away before my irritation spills over.
I cross to the minibar, pour myself a generous glass of brandy, and take a slow sip.
“This better be good, Mum,” I say quietly.
“Oh, it’s good, Tarian Sawyer.” She snaps, heels clicking sharply against marble as she advances.
I don’t turn around.
I stare out the floor to ceiling window, city stretching endlessly below me.
“You’re taking lovers now?” She demands.
“To the point of visiting one tomorrow?”
I turn slowly, eyebrow lifting.
“Lovers?”
“Don’t play dumb with me.” She fires.
“I had lunch with Viola today.
She told me everything.
That you’ve taken a lover.
That you’re seeing her tomorrow in Nantucket.
That woman, Murieann Amran.
Owner of Elianor Pearls.”
I stare at her, mildly horrified and absurdly amused.
A chuckle escapes before I can stop it.
“Mum,” I say calmly, “Murieann Amran is the owner of Elianor Pearls,, the same investor Dad and I were discussing over dinner at your place the other night.”
Recognition flashes across her face.
Then remorse.
“Why didn’t you tell her?” She mutters. This chapter was copied from g.com without permission.
“Why didn’t you explain that to Viola?
Remind her she’s the investor you and your father were talking about?”
“Because she’s already decided to suspect me at every turn,” I reply quietly.
“She’s decided to hate me for every action I take, even when it’s meant to protect her.”
I set the glass down harder than necessary.
My palms brace against the marble as I bow my head, exhaustion weighing down my shoulders.
I think of the number of times I’ve tried persuading her to divorce me, knowing I have no feelings for her.
Yet, Viola hates me for that as well.
“This marriage can’t work anymore, Mum.” I admit.
“It never worked.
Viola feels suffocated by me.
And now every step I take turns into another accusation.”
The words hurt on the way out, because they’re true.
Years of forcing myself to hold together something hollow constricts my chest.
Years of trying to love what never took root.
Mum steps closer, placing a gentle hand on my shoulder.
“You can’t say that.
You can’t give up now.
Maybe when the baby comes…”
“What baby?” I snap, wrenching away from her.
I turn fully now, anger sharp and unrestrained.
“There is no baby.
We tried.
And I can’t try anymore.
I can’t keep living a lie with a woman I feel nothing for, especially when I know my emptiness wounds her every single day.”
Her hand flies to her mouth.
Tears well instantly in her eyes.
I turn away, my thoughts betraying me as they drift, effortlessly, to Murieann.
The way she commands a room without effort.
The way she drew me in without trying.
Viola tried so hard, for so long.
Nothing.
Murieann barely tried at all.
And yet here I am, parched, desperate, drawn to her like a man stumbling toward an oasis.
Silence swells between us, heavy and painful.
“Go on your trip, Tarian,” Mum finally says.
I look back at her.
“I want to believe this is just nerves.
Anticipation over securing a new deal.” She watches me closely as she speaks.
Searching my face for reassurance.
I give her nothing, because I have nothing to give.
“Perhaps when you return with a signed agreement with Murieann.” She continues softly, “Your mind will be clear again.”
I say nothing.
Because I already know Viola and I are standing on borrowed time.
And when it ends, it won’t be quiet.
It would be loud and f*cking ugly.