Chapter 40

40

Knox

"Give me one reason why I should not fire the lot of you?" I widen my stance. A headache stabs behind my left eye, and I ignore it.

I didn't sleep well last night, and it has nothing to do with my not sleeping in the same bed as my wife. No way, can I miss not having her next to me in my bed when it's only one night that we spent together. And a few hours yesterday, where I listened to her soft breathing and even softer sighs, and the slide of sheets on her skin as she turned to face me.

We returned from Paris, and I buried myself in my home office without bothering to explain to her why I decided to return to London. Simply put, I'm confused about my feelings for her.

I needed to put distance between us, so I went straight into a meeting I'd scheduled on the flight back.

By the time I emerged from the meeting, she was asleep. In my bedroom, and in my bed. Seeing here there felt right.

It also intensified this feeling of panic gripping me. I cannot give up control of my emotions. I cannot give up control of my life… And it feels like I did just that in acknowledging my feelings for her.

I didn't dare slip into bed with her. So instead, I pulled up a chair and watched her sleep. Then, when it felt like I wouldn't be able to restrain myself from joining her, I marched back to my study and spent the rest of the night on the couch.

I made sure to come into the office early today, so I didn't have to see her.

But I knew she was back at her desk because she emailed to let me know. Then, she proceeded to take care of work and update me on various ongoing projects. I didn't reply to her. Didn't email or call her, like the coward I am.

All the pent-up anger at myself came to a head when I sat in on a sales meeting and realized our quarterly projections were way off. Fuck. People are not doing their jobs. And given my personal life is in chaos, no way, am I allowing my professional life to go down the toilet as well. I glare at the team gathered around the conference room table.

All of them avert their eyes. One of them shuffles their feet. Someone coughs. I scowl at my Vice President of Sales. He's sitting to my right. His eyes are ringed with dark circles. His hair is mussed like he's been running his hands through it. There's a stain on his collar, something that looks like spittle.

I've been unable to take my gaze off of it since I started this meeting. Now, I train my glare on him. "Do you have any excuse for why we're five percent below our projections for the last quarter?"

He shifts in his seat. "It's only five percent," he murmurs.

The way he responds infuriates me. This is not an insignificant amount. "It was an entire five percent." I scowl. "When we finalized the forecasts, did I or did I not tell you that if you didn't hit it, it would be your job at risk?"

He draws in a sharp breath. "I tried my best. My team and I? We worked nights; we pounded the pavement; we called in favors with media planners. We have several deals in the cooker; just couldn't close them by month-end. But we will. We did everything possible to hit the numbers."

"Not nearly enough, apparently." I look over the faces of the other team members, most of which are pale. One of them looks like he's about to cry. Another is clutching his stomach like he's about to puke.

My instinct warns me I should cool down, take a step back, try to get perspective. It's one of the things I was well known for when I was a Marine—the ability to be calm under pressure. To distance myself from a life and death situation so I could have an overhead view. It always helped me get in touch with my instinct and pick the best option.

Which is what I did when I married her. So, why am I unable to come to grips with the depth of my feelings for her? And why the hell am I taking out my anger on my unsuspecting team?

"You're the leader of this group, so I hold you personally responsible for not hitting your goals."

The Vice President swallows. More color fades from his cheeks, but he looks resigned. "The buck stops with me." He rises to his feet and gathers his phone and tablet. "I'll send you my resignation."

"That's not fair." One of the younger members of the team jumps to her feet. "He gave it everything. You have to realize he has a?—"

"Sit down." My Vice President jerks his chin in her direction.

The woman firms her lip, then sinks down with a hateful look in my direction.

Great, now I've alienated the very team whose support I need to hit the numbers I've committed to Arthur. He confirmed me as the CEO of the Media Arm of the Davenport group—my reward for getting married. All the more reason for me to deliver on my forecasts. Five percent is a margin of error too much. Five percent, either way, makes a difference in whether a bullet is lethal or not. I cannot not make the leader of this team pay for not having hit his estimates. It would set a precedent for my being weak. Only, this is not a life and death situation, is it? I push the thought from my mind, fold my arms across my chest.

My Vice President nods in the direction of his team. "It's been a pleasure and an honor leading all of you." He turns to leave. That's when the door to the conference room bursts open.

My wife walks in. All eyes turn in her direction.

She reaches the head of the table, keeping enough distance between us that I can't touch her. My fingers tingle. I haven't seen her all morning, and now, I eat up her big brown eyes, her hair which she's piled on top of her head to show off the curve of her neck—which bears a mark .

My mark. Fuck. I have a recollection of biting down on the skin there when I took her for the third time that night in Paris. Satisfaction coils in my chest. Pride squeezes my ribcage. Damn, I want to proclaim to the world that she's mine. Only, I'm not worthy of her.

She glances around the team, then at my Vice President who's looking at her with bemusement.

"What happened?" she asks in a breathless tone.

The same team member who spoke up earlier nods in my VP's direction. "Mr. Davenport fired him because we missed the sales forecast by five percent."

"What?" She turns on me. "You can't do that."

I freeze. "Care to repeat that?" I ask slowly.

She blinks, then swallows hard. "You... You can't fire him."

"Are you telling me what I can and can't do with my team?" I lower my voice to a hush. The dominance in my tone is unmistakable. She winces, then nods slowly.

The rest of the team falls silent. They're following the exchange with great interest. The silence stretches. She swallows, and the sound is audible.

"You… You'll regret it if you let him go," she murmurs.

"And why is that?"

"He had a baby three months ago, yet he didn't take a day off. Instead of spending any time with his wife and newborn, he did his best to deliver on the numbers. Also, his child was unwell last night, and he and his wife spent the night in the emergency room. After which, he turned up for this meeting today." She tips up her chin. "He did try his best, and he and this team missed their goals by a very small percentage."

"Which is not the same as actually delivering," I remind her. "And a small percentage does not translate into a small amount of revenue."

"I'm sure they'll make up for it in the next quarter," she pleads.

There are nods around the table. I'm aware of the team looking at me with hope in their eyes. Even my Vice President is watching me carefully.

As for my wife? Her chin is set at that stubborn angle that tells me she's not going to give in on this. And I admit, I admire the fact that she held her own against me.

I scowl at my Vice President. "Is what she says true? "

He nods.

"Is your child, okay?"

He seems surprised, then nods again. "It was a virus, but you know kids," He half smiles. "The fever shot up and wasn't coming down at all. We took her to the hospital, and she's better now."

"I'm glad." I shift my weight to my right foot. "You may leave the room." I glance at the team gathered around the table. "You may all leave. On one condition."

They look at me with expectant expressions. "You need to deliver five percent above the projected numbers for next quarter."

"We will." My VP nods.

"Yes!" The girl who spoke earlier jumps to her feet. "You won't regret this, Mr. Davenport." They begin to file out, their steps hurried. They can't wait to get away from me. My wife turns to follow in their wake.

I call out, "Not you, Kelly Assistant."