Chapter 17

SEVENTEEN

"Fucking unbelievable." Micah slaps his hand on the table, wearing the largest grin I've ever seen. He swings his wide eyes at me. "You've been CEO of Harding Holdings for only three days, and you've managed to close nine of the contracts that were held off the past month. We didn't lose a single client."

"Great job, Lennon." Tyson, our accountant, taps on the tablet he's holding between his hands. "If you keep this up, you're on track to match your profits from last year."

Leaning forward and resting my arms on the edge of the table, I can't help but side eye my phone for the millionth time since I sat down in this conference room an hour ago. It feels like I've been living here the past few days, but all I want to do is talk to my wife.

I haven't heard from Laurel today. We've only been married for three days, but we've managed to pick up a routine. A routine of sorts. But to secure these accounts that Tyson and Micah are raving about, I've had to sacrifice my time with Laurel by way more than expected.

Not having accounted for a honeymoon, I immediately headed into work the morning after our wedding. It took all the strength I had to leave her lying in my bed completely naked and sore from the night before, but my father's words echoed in my mind, reminding me of the legacy he left behind.

Call it greed.

Call it ambition.

Call it ego.

I want to be better than my father. I want to take his company and increase our profits and footprint tenfold. But I know to get there, I can't risk taking a break. Even if only for a day. I'd already left the company in limbo for thirty days.

Jam packed with meetings from morning until night means I haven't seen much of Laurel. I've relied on her texts. I've relied on seeing her in my bed, sleeping as if she's belonged there all along. Because she has. My body aches for her, and my cock is pleading to be inside her again, but I've also allowed the fear to creep in again. The same fear I had the night of the wedding. I don't want Laurel thinking I've taken our arranged marriage as permission to touch her whenever I want if that isn't the kind of marriage she had in mind.

It's been a battle between my heart and my dick, but I don't want her thinking she's going to get the Lennon she's known in the past, so I've slowed things down a bit. Though even I have to admit it's too slow.

"Lennon?" Micah calls me, pulling me from my thoughts.

I look around the room. Tyson is no longer sitting beside Micah. Everyone else has already left. It's just my brother and me.

"Oh, shit." I run a hand down the side of my face. Exhaustion settles in my bones. "I didn't realize everyone left."

"Tyson said he was going to compile a spreadsheet of all the financial details of these new accounts and email them over to you."

"Good." I sigh, flicking my wrist to read the time. "Our next client should be here in an hour. I have a few emails to send off, so I'll meet you back here." I stand from my place at the conference table and head back to my office with my phone in hand.

Micah follows me, sliding his hands into the pockets of his suit as we walk.

"Do you remember Archer Mayfield?" he asks.

I nod. "Isn't he your childhood best friend or something?"

Unlocking my phone, I check to make sure I didn't miss any messages from Laurel. I didn't. The last message I have from her is the one where she sent me a picture of the lavender flower I'd taken from the greenhouse. She slid it into the sleeve of one of the vinyl records she'd found on a shelf in the living room, next to my mother's old record player. I laughed at the picture of the album cover under a heavy abstract marble statue one of my decorators must have bought to make my place appear more personal. Or some shit like that.

Laurel told me it was the only solution she came up with when she realized I wasn't lying when I told her I didn't own a single book—a problem she said she was going to rectify immediately. I sent her a message this morning letting her know I was going to call her after my first meeting of the day, but she never responded.

"Dude, are you listening?" Micah asks, annoyed. "I've been wanting to talk to you about this for the past week. Now that you're out of your sticky situation, we can."

"I'm sorry. I haven't heard from Laurel today."

"How's that going, by the way?" Micah prods. "How's married life been?"

I take a deep breath, not wanting to pour my heart out to my little brother. I can't tell him I've fallen for my wife. Not when said wife isn't supposed to mean more than our signatures at the bottom of a certificate.

Hardings don't do marriage and commitment.

A wire snaps in my chest, and I inhale a shaky breath. Laurel has completely fucked me up in the best possible way. It's as if I'm forcing myself to live the life I did when my father was alive before I proposed to her.

"Married life is fine." I shove the feelings aside temporarily, treading as carefully as I can with my brother. Transparent lies are better than bold faced ones. At least that's what I tell myself. "What were you saying about Archer?"

"Oh, right." He scratches at the stubble lining his chin. "Archer is my best friend from high school. I don't know if you remember him, but he lived next door to me when my mom had that house out in Cambridge."

"I remember him." I nod, recalling the night Micah had brought him along on one of our weekly family dinners at my father's favorite restaurant, Eclipse. One of the only nights we would see him when he was still living with his mother. And I remember the night I bailed Archer and Micah out of jail after they got arrested.

"Well," Micah starts, pulling me from the memory. "Archer runs a giant tech firm out along the West Coast after moving out there last year. But he wants to start expanding his way to the east, so I thought maybe we could set up a meeting with him."

"Sure." I don't hesitate. Helping Micah's best friend isn't a problem. My little brother has dedicated enough of his time to our family business and fought tooth and nail to be a voice in this company. "See when Archer can schedule a meeting to present his business plan. Preferably next week sometime, but double check with Olivia because at this point, I have no fucking clue what I'm doing. I'm running on fumes, and we haven't even made it halfway through the week."

"Perfect." Micah beams, screeching to a halt in the hallway. "I'll see you back in the conference room in an hour."

"Great," I mutter. I don't know why, but a prickling sensation plays at the back of my neck with Laurel's silence. Like a knife, an ache twists in my chest.

Once Micah turns his back to me, I'm hot on my heels to my office. Olivia is sitting at her desk, the sound of her long nails meeting her keyboard echoing down the hallway.

"Hello, Mr. Harding." She stands, grabbing a stack of papers from her desk. The usual list of notes and messages she took in my absence.

I hold my hand up. "Unless any of those are from my wife, I don't want them."

"Oh." She blinks. "Um." Her body twists as she holds the papers, unsure whether she should still hand them to me or place them back on her desk.

"Have you heard from her?" I ask.

Olivia's eyebrows arch across her forehead. "Your wife?"

"Yes, Olivia." I grind my molars. "My wife."

"No, sir. I haven't. Would you like me to call down to her office and let her know you would like to speak with her?"

"Yes." I place my hands on my hips, my face heating with irritation. Or fear. Fuck, it might be both. "I want you to send her call straight to me, and if she's in a meeting, leave a message telling her to call me immediately."

"Of course." Olivia sits back in her chair and picks up the receiver of her desk phone.

I slam my office door, disappointed to not find Laurel sitting at my desk half naked.

I pull out my phone again and call her. She doesn't pick up.

Walking over to the far window of my office, I stare out at the city. There are plenty of explanations as to why Laurel might not be answering: meeting with a prospective client, sitting in at a hearing downtown, accident on the way into work.

It's irrational and stupid. Foolish. My throat starts to swell with every passing second. I loosen the tie around my neck. My hands are clammy, and it feels as if my veins have been injected with liquid heat again. It feels like when I wake up from a nightmare. I haven't had one since Laurel moved in. I wasn't sure why, but I hoped maybe my subconscious knew she was there, casting out the nightmare.

Although the panic attack I'm suffering from right now feels the same as when I wake up from a nightmare, my fear multiplies, because this time is different. I'm not asleep or caught in a dream state, imagining the guilt and hopelessness. This is real. I'm aware of every beat of my heart and every breath squeezing through my constricted lungs.

The intercom on my phone beeps, letting me know Olivia would like to speak with me. My legs carry me swiftly across my office, eating up the space between me and my desk.

"Yes, Olivia?"

"I called Mrs. Harding's office."

"Okay, does she plan on calling me back?"

"I didn't speak with her," Olivia explains. "I spoke with her secretary. He told me Mrs. Harding left for the day about an hour ago."

"An hour ago?" I ask incredulously. I look up at the clock hanging beside the door to my office. "It's still morning. Did her secretary say why she left?"

"He said she went home sick. He also said she mentioned on her way out that her driver was taking her home."

I inhale a deep breath and swallow. "Thank you, Olivia."

"You're welcome," she says, softly. I hear the sympathy in her voice. "By the way, Erik Larsson is waiting for you in the conference room."

"Great," I grit out. "Tell him I'll be there in five minutes."

I hang up and immediately call Ray.

"Yes, sir," Ray greets in his usual tone.

"Did you take Laurel home earlier?" I ask, cutting to the chase.

"Um, yes, sir. I did."

My nostrils flare in anger. "Why didn't you inform me?"

"I apologize, sir. Mrs. Harding was adamant on going to work this morning, but shortly after, she requested I take her home. I asked her if she wanted me to inform you and she said no considering you were in meetings all day."

"Is something wrong?" I ask, trying to tone down the panic in my voice.

The beeping of the monitor. Her sad, weary eyes. Her last gasping breath. The single tears sliding down her cold cheek.

I force the sickness down my throat.

This isn't the same. This isn't the same.

I can't breathe. All sorts of disturbing images play in my mind—ones that are nauseating and heart-wrenching. Ones no normal, sane person would conjure up unless they had good reason. There's no in between in my mind. I go from zero to a thousand, immediately darting to the worst possible scenario.

"She woke up with a head cold, Mr. Harding. Sore throat, stuffy nose, headache. She climbed into bed as soon as we got home and hasn't emerged since."

"Oh," I sigh, my stomach relaxing. I place my hand against my chest. "Let me know when she wakes up. I don't care what she said about me being in meetings."

"Yes, sir."

"Oh, and Ray?"

"Yes?"

"Next time my wife leaves work because she's sick, I want to fucking know about it."

"Yes, s?—"

I cut Ray off before he can finish his sentence. My phone slips from my hand, dropping on my desk with a loud thud.

A twinge of guilt hits me. I've never talked to Ray this way. Although he's worked for me the past ten years, I've always treated him with respect and valued his friendship. But my shaking hands and hammering heart couldn't take the conversation. Anchoring myself, I sit at my desk and bury my face in my hands. Pressure builds behind my eyes.

Minutes pass before I'm able to collect my thoughts and clear my mind.

When I open my eyes again, I stare at my desk as one single tear drop slides down my cheek, dropping onto the glossy wood. It splashes and pools as my heart sinks like an anchor plummeting to the bottom of the sea.

I place my hand on my chest and count my heartbeats.

Laurel is okay. She's at home, in our apartment, wrapped up in the safety and comfort of our sheets on our bed.

I need to get a fucking grip.