Liam Greyson - POV
"Sign here."
The pen was already in my hand before I even looked up. Habit. Reflex. Whatever you want to call it. The weight of it felt heavier today - this signature would cost three thousand people their jobs by Friday.
The voice—confident, brisk—belonged to one of the senior partners. He didn't need to explain himself. He knew I'd sign. I always signed. Anything that made it this far had already been sliced, examined, and rebuilt by my lawyers until it was airtight. The kind of document where the devil wasn't in the details, but in the blank spaces between them.
The pen felt like it belonged to me, like an extra finger I'd had all my life. My name rolled onto the page in smooth strokes, the kind you only got after years of writing the same signature until it became muscle memory. I'd signed enough contracts to redirect the fate of companies, topple governments, and make men twice my age weep in their private jets. The ink was barely dry before the cameras started popping.
I looked up, finally. The boardroom blurred into a collage of gold cufflinks, diamond-faced watches, and eyes that glittered with a hunger they thought they were hiding. The air smelled like expensive cologne and the metallic tang of ambition.
A few people leaned forward, expecting a speech. They'd learn. I didn't give speeches.
I clicked the pen shut, slid it across the folder, and nodded—barely. That was my speech.
The air felt heavier than it should. Maybe it was all the glass in here, maybe it was the press of too many egos in one place. The AC hummed overhead, but it didn't touch the tension. Someone's Rolex ticked loudly enough to count the seconds of silence.
I pushed back my chair—wood screeching against marble—and stood. No one said a word as I left. No one ever did. The scent of my whiskey from earlier still clung to the leather chair, abandoned like everything else in my wake.
The elevator doors parted to a mirrored interior. My reflection stared back—six-two, black suit, black tie, the kind of posture you got when you'd spent years in rooms where weakness got eaten alive. My expression was nothing. My eyes... People called them cold. They were just locked. The kind of look that made interns forget their own names.
Halfway down, my phone vibrated. A message from the board secretary:
The board requests confirmation of marriage within 30 days or the deal dissolves.
Marriage.
The word tasted like it didn't belong in my mouth anymore. I hadn't said it in years.
Jasmine perfume. Rain on hardwood. A suitcase rolling toward the elevator.
No. Stop there.
By the time the elevator landed on my private floor, the thought had its claws in me deep enough to draw blood.
My office greeted me like an old friend. Floor-to-ceiling glass threw the city at my feet, all steel and light and motion. My desk—black walnut, polished enough to catch a reflection—sat in the middle of it all. Three monitors spilled market data across the room, red and green pulses that I understood better than my own heartbeat. The faint scent of lemon polish mixed with the ever-present coffee bitterness.
To Oliver, my assistant, this place was mission control.
To me, it was a tether. Kept me from drifting too far into memories I'd buried under spreadsheets and stock prices.
And then she appeared uninvited—behind my eyes. Elise.
The one I couldn't keep.
Blonde hair that always smelled like jasmine even in downpours, a laugh that bent the air in a room until everyone turned to look. The memory was sharp, too sharp. I shoved it back into that corner of my mind where all the ghosts went to smoke and whisper about better days.
The board didn't care who I married. They cared about the picture—the perfect CEO with the perfect wife. Red-carpet charity events where her hand would rest delicately on my arm. Magazine spreads where she'd gaze adoringly at me over champagne flutes. A woman who looked like she was made to stand beside me and play their fantasy of domestic bliss.
If only they knew the last time I'd touched a woman's hand, I'd left bruises.
The door opened with a soft click.
"Mr. Greyson?"
Oliver stepped in, tablet tucked under one arm like a schoolbook. Young, ambitious, wearing the kind of suit you treated like armor because it still felt new. His tie knot was perfect. I wanted to loosen it just to watch him panic.
"The press is waiting downstairs for your statement on the merger," he said.
I tilted my chin toward the folder on my desk. My words were already in there—polished, rehearsed, lifeless. The kind of statement that said everything and nothing at all.
He hesitated. The clock ticked three times before he spoke again. "There's also the board's request."
"I've seen it."
"Do you have someone in mind?"
I turned the pen between my fingers, watching the light play along its engraved surface. "No."
But the lie tasted strange. Across the street, the tech expo banner flapped in the wind.
"Should I start looking?"
I gave him a single nod. That was enough.
When the door closed, the silence felt sharper. I already knew what was coming: faces, résumés, perfect smiles, empty eyes. Women trained to say the right thing, to look flawless in photos, to pretend they knew the man behind the name. The kind of women who'd sell their mothers for a Birkin and a seat at my table.
It wasn't a new game.
But thirty days? That was a noose disguised as a deadline.
Flashback
It was raining the day Elise left. Not the soft, romantic kind of rain—the kind that made you stand by the window with coffee—but the heavy, angry kind that hammered every surface until it was all you could hear. She stood in the doorway with a suitcase at her side, her hair sticking to her cheek in damp strands. The elevator light behind her made a halo of the rain clinging to her coat.
"You don't let anyone in, Liam. Not even me."
I wanted to tell her she was wrong. That I loved her. That the walls I built were to protect us both from the vultures circling my fortune. But my jaw locked. And I just stood there, watching her step out into the storm until the rain blurred her into the city like another forgotten transaction.
The sound of those suitcase wheels on marble stayed with me for weeks. I had the floors replaced.
By the time I left the office that evening, the sun was spilling gold across the skyline. My driver opened the car door, but I didn't step in. Not right away.
Across the street, the International Tech Expo was emptying out. A banner flapped in the breeze, announcing innovation in fat metallic letters that would look cheap by tomorrow.
That's when I saw her.
She was next to a man whose hands moved in quick, fluid shapes—sign language. She mirrored every motion, translating for a small group gathered close. Her dark hair caught the sun, flashes of warm brown and gold like whiskey in crystal. She wasn't just signing words; she was translating feelings, every flick of her fingers charged with something alive. The way her eyebrows lifted at a joke, the slight tilt of her head when listening—it was all so... present.
The man she was signing for laughed, and she smiled. Just for a second. But it was enough to make my chest tighten. I hadn't felt that in years—not since a woman last looked at me like I was a man, not a transaction.
Oliver noticed I hadn't moved. "Shall we go, sir?"
I didn't answer. My focus was locked on her—on the calm precision of her movements, the way her eyes connected to the man she was interpreting for, like she was pulling the words straight from his chest. She touched his arm briefly to get his attention, and something hot and unwelcome coiled in my gut.
I took out my phone and typed two words: Find her.
Oliver was already working on it as I finally stepped into the car. I kept watching until the crowd swallowed her whole, her dark hair the last thing to disappear behind a sea of suits.
Minutes later, my phone buzzed.
Name: Ava Monroe. Startup founder. Financial t
rouble. $2.3M in debt.
A slow curve pulled at my mouth—dangerous, not friendly.
Not quite a smile.
But close.