8. Silas

The first sliver of dawn peeks through the blinds, painting streaks of muted gold across my bedroom floor. I roll out of bed, muscles pleasantly sore from yesterdays race. One day, Ill find a woman who can keep up with my pace on the track … and off. A smirk tugs at my lips.

My house is all sleek lines and minimalist design, a stark contrast to the chaos of my childhood homes. I pad barefoot to the kitchen, the ritual of grinding espresso beans, the hiss of steam—a grounding start to my manic days.

The first sip of espresso is like a jolt of pure fuel. I check my reflection in the mirrored fridge. Immaculate suit, a faint hint of stubble—the picture of controlled power. Time to unleash the charming facade the world expects.

My vintage Aston Martin gleams in the garage. I slide behind the wheel, the rich leather smell engulfing me. The roar of the engine is a symphony for one. As I cut through Embertons quaint countryside, a fleeting image of Emily flashes through my mind. The woman is an enigma, a beguiling mix of elegance and hidden fire.

The conference room is a battleground disguised in polished wood. Ellis, the owner of a struggling fruit farm, sits hunched across the table. His worn flannel shirt clashes with the sleek Armani suits of the board members.

Look, Mr. Ellis, I begin, leaning back in my chair, your numbers are dismal. The farms in debt, your equipments outdated. Im a businessman, not a miracle worker.

Elliss eyes flicker with desperation, the creases on his face etched deeper by worry. Mr. Blackwood, Im not asking for a handout. Just a chance. My land, its good land. Weve had a few bad years, but with the right investment?—

And what makes you think Im that investment? I cut him off, my tone sharp. The board members around the table shift, a ripple of anticipation. Ive built my reputation on calculated risks, not charity cases.

A younger, greener me might have been swayed by sentiment. But years in the cutthroat investment world have honed my instincts. I see the potential in Elliss farm, but also the magnitude of the risk.

My phone buzzes—its Roger, my ever-loyal, ever-snarky business partner. Lunch? is his only message. Its code for, Youre not disappearing into your office for days until you crack this deal, right?

Fine. Meet me at Marios in an hour, I reply.

The meeting drags on, but a restless energy gnaws at me. My mind is singularly hung up on Emily.

Marios, a bustling trattoria, is a cacophony of laughter and clinking glasses. Roger spots me and we sit down to lunch.

So, what plans have you? He asks.

For the first time in many, many months, I genuinely have no answer. I open my mouth to think of something witty and fail spectacularly. I settle with giving a noncommittal grunt.

Hes on to me like a hawk. Whats this? Silas Blackwood is out of words? Dont tell me, youve finally fallen prey to a pair of pretty eyes? That would explain the distracted air youre sporting.

Dear God, I must look stupid.

Its a woman, isnt it?

No, I say defensively. Its not. Stop making presumptions.

Roger doubles down and raises an eyebrow, his usual smirk replaced by genuine delight. You know its not a big deal to actually like another human being, right?

Maybe hes right.

I flash him a grin. Maybe I wont deny it outright. A bit of mystery has always been part of my allure. You could say that. But this … it feels different. Im not willing to say any more.

Thats fine, he replies wisely. This is a business lunch anyway. But if youre in the mood to talk about something other than shop?—

Thanks, Roger, but Im not. Now…

We launch into the Ellis deal, dissecting the financials. Its familiar ground, a comforting dance of figures and strategies. Yet, Emilys face keeps intruding, a tantalizing distraction.

Roger, who knows me better than most, catches my gaze and persists. So, when do we get to meet this woman whos rattled the great Silas Blackwood?

A jolt of something like nerves sparks through me. Id never admit it, but something shifts subtly in my demeanor. Its not that … important, I murmur, a note of hesitation creeping into my voice.

Keep telling yourself that.

After lunch, I drive aimlessly. Its unlike me, this lack of control. Emily unsettles me, throws off the carefully calibrated balance of my world. Part of me relishes the sensation, the long-dormant thrill of the unpredictable. Another part squirms under the unfamiliar scrutiny of vulnerability.

I pull into a quiet park on the outskirts of Emberton. The late afternoon sun dips below the hills, painting the sky in a dazzling array of oranges and pinks. An unexpected wave of nostalgia hits me. As a kid, moments like this were rare, filled instead with relentless training schedules and my foster fathers voice echoing in my ear: Push harder, run faster, settle for nothing less than victory.

Victory tastes different now. Its about closing billion-dollar deals, yes, but a disquieting sense of emptiness lingers afterward. Is this all there is?

My phone buzzes, shattering the tranquil moment. An automated reminder—my weekly massage appointment. Its meant to knead out the tension, but the tight knots in my shoulders seem to go deeper these days.

As I drive home, the image of Emily resurfaces. Would she see past the tailored suits, the luxury car, into … what exactly? Its been years since I allowed a connection beyond the fleeting, the superficial. This time, theres an urge to dive deeper, to be seen beyond my carefully crafted persona. The potential thrills me, and more than a little, terrifies me.

My house looms in the twilight, its stark silhouette a juxtaposition to the vibrant sunset. I park and sit for a moment in the Aston Martin, the engine ticking as it cools. The silence is a strange and unfamiliar companion.

The silence weighs heavier than any barbell, heavier than the tension of a multi-million-dollar negotiation. A sigh escapes my lips, unbidden. Doubt niggles, an unfamiliar itch. This vulnerable, hesitant version of myself doesnt bode well, not when Emily awaits. In an hour, Im meant to be confident, charming … the Silas Blackwood she met, the one who intrigued her.

I jerk upright, a jolt of determination coursing through me. No room for weakness. Tonight is a new gamble, a different kind of calculated risk. Exhaling slowly, I step out of the car and walk towards the house, its imposing lines mirroring my resolve.

Inside, the minimalist decor offers no warmth, no distraction. I head to the bathroom, the ritual of a hot shower a means to reset, to wash away the lingering uncertainty. The mirror reflects a familiar face—sharp angles, the intensity I usually project like armor. But theres a flicker behind my eyes, a flicker Emily had ignited.

Toweling off, I move robotically, selecting a crisp shirt, cufflinks glinting in the harsh bathroom light. Im running on autopilot, the familiar motions soothing the inner tremor. Time compresses—moments later, Im back in the Aston Martin, engine roaring, cutting through the dusk towards Emberton.

The unassuming bistro feels oddly intimate as I enter. A scan of the room, and there she is. Emily, radiant in a vibrant blue dress that sets off her eyes, her laugh like music against the soft hum of conversation. All doubt evaporates as a surge of something akin to relief washes over me.

Silas. She smiles, and the world tilts.

We talk for what feels like both hours and seconds. Emily is disarmingly insightful, her questions cutting through the surface-level exchanges Im so accustomed to. I find myself revealing not deals and strategies, but snippets of my childhood, the relentless pressure that propelled me forward. She listens intently, her gaze unwavering.

So, she teases, swirling her wine, is this your usual first-date spot? Trying to impress me with your fancy spreadsheets?

I laugh, startled and genuine. No spreadsheets tonight. I promise. And somewhere a little more … lively is in order. Lets go. I wait for her to raise a suspicious brow and ask me where. Instead, she stands up and flips her cascading hair so I can see silver light spill on the ridges of her collarbones. A few strands of hair remain, snaking down to the valley between her full, lush breasts—contained just enough by the strapless number shes wearing.

I go hard at the very sight of her.

Behave, I tell myself. Internally, of course. Im not about to make a fool of myself. I take a second to compose myself before leading her out.

So, she smiles and nods at the vintage car. I can see you have the beast at your command, but tonight, Id like to drive you.

Im game. I nod at the valet. He knows what to do.

Then, were in Emilys car, headed toward a pub.

The one we settle into is a swirl of boisterous energy, the scent of fizzy beer and laughter filling the air. Conversation flows, fueled by shared interests and playful banter. My usual reserve melts away, replaced by a lightness I havent felt in years. Its both intoxicating and unsettling—the ease between us feels dangerously precious.

On a whim, I suggest calling my arsenal. I know Caeleb is into Emily. Its evident. Finn … he looked smitten too. And I have no problems worshipping this woman with my best friends. Hell, Ive never been all that fond of monogamy anyway.

I check the time.

Caeleb, bless his predictability, is most likely hosting one of his lavish dinners. A quick call confirms my suspicions. Finn, however, should be free. Emilys eyes light up with curiosity at the mention of my elusive friends.

Finn joins us at the pub, his usual easygoing grin becoming more pronounced as Emily launches a million-dollar smile his way.

Its late at night when all of us head to Finns place, our bellies full of laughter and beer.

Emily leads us to her car, parked a short distance away. I slide into the back seat, letting the soft leather envelop me, while Finn takes shotgun, and Emily, with undeniable grace, slides behind the wheel.

As she starts the car,the gentle purr of the engine fills the silence of the night. The drive to Finns house is smooth, the car gliding over the roads with effortless grace, the outside world blurring into streaks of lights.

Turning into Finns neighborhood, the houses here are a testament to success, each one unique yet uniformly grand. But even among these, Finns place has a way of standing out. Its a stunningly contemporary home, its facade a combination of glass, steel, and smooth concrete, illuminated by strategically placed outdoor lighting that gives it a warm, welcoming glow despite its cool, modern lines.

Emily parks the car, and we step out, the air rich with the scent of the night-blooming jasmine from Finns garden. The front door is a masterpiece of wood and glass, opening to reveal an interior thats as sleek and stylish as the exterior promised.

The entryway is grand, with high ceilings and a stunning chandelier that casts a warm, inviting light. The decor is a mix of high-end modern and eclectic pieces, from the art adorning the walls to the plush, designer furniture.

Finn leads us through the house, each space bold, confident, yet inviting. The living room is spacious, with floor-to-ceiling windows that offer a view of the backyard oasis, complete with a sparkling pool and an outdoor kitchen that screams for summer parties.

It takes us ten minutes to settle in. Im nursing a drink, still slightly buzzing from the laughter-filled drive over in Emilys car, when Finn suddenly halts and claps his hands together, drawing our attention.

Welcome to the after-party, he announces, with a theatrical flourish thats entirely Finn.

Emily laughs and spins on her heel, her eyes sparkling. An after-party? Here? What, are we going to raid your wine cellar and call it a night?

Finn wags a finger, a playful smirk on his lips. Ah, but you see, every great after-party needs an impromptu dance floor. And I think this, he gestures grandly to the open space between the designer sofas and the glass wall overlooking the pool, will do quite nicely.

I chuckle, shaking my head. Finn, the last time you tried to dance, you nearly knocked over your thousand-dollar vase.

That was one time, Finn protests, feigning offense, and the vase survived. Besides, Ive been practicing.

Emily laughs. Alright, DJ Finn, if youre so confident, put on some music. Lets see if your moves have improved.

With a nod, Finn strides over to a sleek sound system, his fingers dancing over the touchscreen. Moments later, the space is filled with the upbeat rhythms of a song thats impossible not to move to.

Emily doesnt miss a beat, swaying with a natural rhythm. Her lush body moves with an effortless grace, utterly captivating. I stand behind Finn, a drink in hand, and we both watch.

Shes incredible, Finn murmurs, his voice tinged with genuine awe.

She is, I agree, unable to look away.

Finns gaze flickers to mine. He understands far more about me than most. So, he begins casually, this is the oddest question Ill ask, but, are you willing to share?

I think, I say slowly, words foreign but true, that yes, I am.

The moment of reckoning lingers between us, the question unasked but reverberating through the air.

Well then, Finn says with a clap of my shoulder, the decision seemingly made for me, Looks like were joining the party.

With a wry smile, he propels me towards Emily, leaving me with no graceful way to retreat. Her hand reaches out, pulling me closer, and a jolt of pure exhilaration shoots through me.

The music shifts, a pulsating beat replacing the earlier melody. Emily is a force of nature, her movements a blend of abandon and control. My body, usually so disciplined, responds instinctively, matching her rhythm.

Finn is a surprisingly skilled dancer, his usual laidback demeanor replaced with a playful energy that mirrors the atmosphere. We circle Emily.

Theres laughter, stolen glances, brushes of skin that feel electrifying. The world narrows down to this moment, this shared space where the lines between flirtation and something deeper blur intoxicatingly.

As the tempo intensifies, Emily twirls closer, her eyes locking with mine. The air between us crackles, charged and undeniable. My hand finds her waist, her fingers trace the line of my jaw. Theres no hesitation now, only the urgent need to feel.

The music pulsates through me, mirroring the thrum of my own heartbeat. I spin Emily close, the world dissolving into an intoxicating blend of her laughter, the scent of her perfume, and the press of bodies.

This is no longer a calculated game, but an exhilarating surrender to the raw, exhilarating beat of the moment.

I know I cant control myself, but only if shes present enough to understand what could happen.

So, I reach out and take her hand in mine. How drunk are you? I ask, my eyes burning into hers.

Drunk enough to know I want this, she says, looking at both Finn and me. And not drunk enough to think you two are taking advantage of me.