He had learned to keep his office cold for thinking. Not coldroom cold, he wasn't a butcher. But the kind that trimmed excess noise from the brain and rendered you sharp and alert.
Julian was reading a proposal and he caught himself reading one paragraph over four times because his thoughts refused to line up.
Falling in love was for other people. For men who had the time with nothing to loose.
For people who hadn't learned the arithmetic progression of attachment and betrayal.
He had constructed an adult life like a tower. Nothing he didn't want got in, till Ashley had walked into Vegas and rendered him defenceless with a laugh and vulnerability that didn't ask permission.
He'd told himself her proximity was just a strategy, a means to an end, their clauses, their public front, their shared bed with an invisible truce line no one crossed.
He'd told himself sleeping next to her would become ordinary in time, if he made it ordinary enough.
He'd told himself many things and he could clearly see self deceit at play.
Last night he had watched her sleep, just for a minute, when he came into the room from the study.
The study, which had become a coping mechanism to check his lust over Ashley.
Seeing her in her night wears, pacing around doing her nightly rituals, with her perky breasts inviting him in, was all too much.
Even thinking about her this way right now was pumping blood in all the wrong places, as he could feel his arousal building up.
She was like an ice cream he couldn't eat while on diet.
The temptation was so relentless. The way she curled a hand under her cheek. The way she reached for his arms in her sleep like a person who wanted anchor without the stress of asking for it.
He had lain there, wondering what madness made him insist they shared a room. Just to be seen as unified, but right now it felt like a man who had set a fire to stay warm and was surprised by the heat.
He wanted her, but it was like a need that had gotten so used to being ignored and denied.
A soft knock at the door rescued him from the spiral. Louis his driver leaned in, Black blazer sharp, eyes sharper. He came into the office hat in hand and a small, padded envelope balanced against his palm.
"Sir," Louis said, clearing his throat. "This was dropped at the front desk. It's marked for Mr. Charles, but they said the courier insisted it belonged upstairs."
Julian took it, weighing the package in his hand. The seal was intact, but something about the weight too light to be urgent documents, too heavy for a standard memo.
"Charles isn't in?"
"Left for a late lunch. I was told to get it to you."
For a flicker of a second, he considered opening it, a habit from a lifetime of never letting surprises blindside him.
But he didn't. If he started going through his own legal counsel's mail, that would send the wrong signal to Charles and he would bolt.
He slid it closer to the edge of the desk and snapped a quick picture of the courier slip.
" Make sure he gets it, then." He gave the parcel back.
As Louis exited, Julian's gaze still lingered on the envelope, evidence getting away.
But he knew it was for the greater good and there was power in delayed gratification.
Later, he'd have someone trace the courier company or the documents itself, just to be safe. For now he was content watching through the hidden camera in Charles' office.
***
The office was quiet when Charles returned. Too quiet, as if the walls could listen. He locked the door before picking up the envelope.
The paper was cool against his palms, his name written in the crisp, expensive hand of someone who didn't hurry.
The seal gave way with a soft tear. Inside were glossy photographs, his mother at the neighborhood fruit stand, cardigan sleeves pushed back, examining oranges.
His niece, hair weaved into two braids, skipping across a crosswalk near her school. His stomach dropped.
On the back of the top photo, in elegant ink,was scribbled.
Good boys keep their seats.
The room shrank. Charles sat heavily in his chair, pulse drumming in his ears.
His first thought was to walk straight into Julian Blackwood's office, to lay it all bare. The calls, the flirting woman, the quiet threats and blackmails.
But the image of his mother's cardigan at that fruit stand stopped him cold. One careless confession, and someone might take her from him.
He thought about the meeting he'd had with Julian about the Stonehenge subsidiary and how he'd insisted his signature and details were forged. He had a chance to come clean and had blown it.
He'd thought incorporating the company as a tiny favor was going to be enough.
Now they got him leaking sensitive documents about Julian to the press.
He wondered if Julian could forgive this.
He was ruthless when it came to business and threats. How would he react if he discovered he was being used as a mole in his company?The blow back was going to be massive, he could even lose his licence. Whichever way he was between the Devil and the deep blue sea and totally screwed.
The phone on his desk vibrated once. He jumped. It was an unknown caller. He didn't need to listen, he could almost smell her perfume through the screen.
She'd call again later, with malice tucked behind it, he couldn't receive it now.
Charles slipped the photos under a folder labeled Q1 Compliance Review, the kind no one opened twice.
Then he opened a blank document on his computer, the cursor blinking like a dare. He typed:
In the event of my incapacity.
Dates, invoices, courier slips, he started listing them methodically, the arithmetic of a man caught between conscience and fear. But when he hovered over the "Send" button, he froze. Instead, he saved the file, typed DRAFT at the top, and closed the window hurriedly.
Outside, the city hummed like nothing had changed. Inside, Charles learned how heavy a photograph could feel.