The line goes dead and she’s gone.
Tough love, for sure, but maybe that’s exactly what I need.
It’s probably too late even for tough love though. He’s going to fire me, divorce me, and probably even take my baby away from me. How can I have fucked everything up this badly?
My mind goes over everything that has unfolded between us. Has it really only been a few weeks? It feels like longer.
A dark part of me wishes I’d taken advantage of my status as Mrs. Alder when I had the chance. Maybe then he wouldn’t be able to get rid of me so easily. If he’d bought me a house or something, then at least the legal side of things, the division of assets or whatever, would’ve slowed the process down.
Shame on you, Tess, I chide myself.
I pace around the apartment and end up staring out of the window. There’s the InFini building—soon to be renamed Alder Tower—lit up in the distance. I can even see that some of the lights are on inside from here.
Is Luke inside? Or has he gone home? Is he in there right now, conferring with his lawyers, working out how to get rid of me as efficiently and cheaply as possible?
Even if that doesn’t happen, he’s definitely going to fire me. He won’t want me as his PA, not after what’s happened. There’s a chance I’ll never see him again.
Claire’s right—I need to fix this. If it’s not too late. I can at least try.
I perch on the windowsill and stare out at the city skyline, trying to come up with a plan. Nothing is okay, and it’s all my fault. I just hope it’s not too late to fix things.
Luke
It’s late and I’m slumped over my desk, poring over some papers, my business suit wilted.
My lawyers are working late into the night to get things fixed before resubmitting everything tomorrow. I’m staying until this legal mess is sorted. I figure it’s best that I’m about to make sure they don’t screw up anything else.
I’ve told my secretary to hold my calls, unless its from my parents, my legal team, or from Brock. She told me Tessa had called a few times earlier in the evening . . . but I’ll deal with Tessa tomorrow. I told my secretary to all callers—including Tessa—I was in an urgent crisis meeting.
I push the mouse on my desk to illuminate my computer screen. There’s a number of emails from my Dad sitting in my inbox.
He’s probably on the plane right now, which means he’s using the in-flight WiFi, which means he’s most likely heard about the situation—most likely from Brock—and wants to know what’s going on.
I can’t ask Brock what exactly he’s told my dad because he’s already left the office. He’s not part of the legal team so I told him to go home and get some rest. That means my dad only has half the picture.
I take a sip of the whiskey I’ve poured for myself, savoring the pleasant burn for a moment before turning to face my computer screen, clicking on the emails.
Judging from the first one, he’s only been told we’d messed up a clause in the documents and not much else.
The next email is a little more worried, asking if this will affect the merger, and how I’m going to handle it.
The final email is a repetition of the second, just written a little more frantically, asking for an update as to what’s going on. My dad, though retired, says he still has contacts that owe him favors if I need them.
I click on the reply button, thinking for a moment before quickly tapping out a response.
Dad,
Everything is okay. The legal team missed out a key clause in the documents they submitted. The competition regulator were, understandably, pretty pissed off.
We managed to call in a favor to get a stay of execution of two days, by which time the documents must be re-submitted in full.
The legal team are amending the documents as we speak, and I’m staying in the office overnight to make sure they get it right this time. I’m going to personally check the documents myself once they’re done, most likely around mid-day tomorrow.
Brock or I will let you know when this whole mess is fixed.
For now, stop worrying and enjoy your holiday! I’ve got it covered.
Luke
I jump at the sound of the phone on my desk ringing, loud and shrill. I frown at it. Who’s calling me at this time of night?
I swear if it’s someone else telling me they’ve fucked something else up, I’m going to explode with violent rage. I whisper a silent prayer that it’s nothing, or good news—as unlikely as that is—before lifting the receiver to my ear.
“Yes?” I answer, my voice weary from stress and from the whiskey.