I glance at the clock. I now have forty minutes before I can expect Olivia home, and I still have no idea what I’m going to say to her when she gets here. How the hell am I going to convince her about us? It’s been days and I haven’t come up with jack shit.

Rising to my feet again, I begin pacing the room. When I see the black lacquered box that sits atop my dresser, I stop and go to it. Cradling the box in my hands, I sit back down on the bed. I don’t often take trips down memory lane; just keeping the mementos safe in my home is usually enough. But today, I need some guidance.

I take each item out, holding it and inspecting it before setting it down one by one on the bed beside me. One of my mother’s lockets. A leather bookmark from her favorite dog-eared romance. The token my father received from the New York Stock Exchange the day his company went public. A water-stained coaster from the seafood restaurant where he proposed to Mum. A friendship bracelet Olivia gave me in the sixth grade, its braided thread fraying and dull. I smile and set it aside as I look through the rest of the treasures I saw fit to save.

After inspecting all the various small tokens that hold meaning in my life, I come to the last thing, buried in the bottom of the box. The folded square of newspaper that contains my mother’s obituary.

Just the feel of the soft, worn paper in my hands makes the hair on the back of my neck stand up. What would she think of me?

I’m forced to take deep stock of my life. It’s unraveled to the point that I can barely recognize it. Where did I go wrong? I put trivial things that don’t matter before love. If the company goes down . . . so what? We have to look for new jobs? Big fucking deal.

Of course, I don’t want to lose the company and watch my friends and employees struggle to piece their lives back together. But as far as my own life goes, my marriage is so much more important than the company name printed on my paycheck. To save those jobs, to save myself from loss of face, I put everything above my wife. If Olivia grants me a second chance, I won’t do that again.

I unfold the newspaper, delicate with age, and gaze upon the words I’ve read many times before:

Dahlia Emerson Tate was taken from this world too soon. Having moved to the United States as a teenager, she later attended Smith College and then married William Tate of Briar Grove, New York. She is survived by her husband and a bright, caring, and inquisitive son, Noah. She firmly believed that her son was her biggest achievement, and raising him was her greatest pleasure in life.

Mum sure as hell knew the importance of love and family. She would probably be so disappointed in me right now.

The lump in my throat grows, and I force a deep breath into my lungs. I haven’t cried over my mother’s passing in many years, but something about her loss feels fresher than ever. Maybe it’s because I’ve destroyed the only good thing in my life, and I don’t have her here to dole out advice, or pat my head, or hug me close.

“I’m sorry, Mum,” I murmur. “I’ll fix this somehow. I will make you proud. I promise.”

Chapter Seven

Olivia

I check in at the spa to discover that Noah has booked me for the works. I’m being treated to a European facial, a French mani/pedi, a hot stone massage, and finally a blow-out. I’m briefly annoyed that Noah booked my appointment under “Mrs. Tate” instead of “Miss Cane.” But I shrug it off. Whatever . . . it’s a free spa day, and after everything that’s happened in the past week, I badly need some downtime. If this is his way of groveling, I’ll take it.

But I’m so tense that I don’t even begin to relax until the massage, over an hour into my appointment. Even while I’m lying on my front, my eyes closed, the tiny blond masseuse rubbing my sore, knotted muscles, my mind can’t help wandering back to the same dismal ground I’ve been mentally pacing for days now.

All along, I was operating under the assumption that once we got married, Noah and I would have ownership on our side. Those extra rights and responsibilities would both force the board to listen to us and make them more willing to take risks, since we’d assume more of the burden in case their gamble went sideways. But the fucking heir clause means that inheriting Tate & Cane isn’t an option anymore.

Is that really the end of the world, though? Is there still another way out?

In a matter of weeks, the board members will meet to cast their votes and decide our company’s fate. But the question isn’t settled yet. They still have a choice to make—either retain Tate & Cane or sell it off. And they’ll approach that choice like businessmen.

It all comes down to which option will make them more money. How much value we’re likely to create in the future compared to how much they can convince another company to buy us for. Long-term versus short-term profit. Risk and reward.

Even as things stand now, it’s not like the company is a terrible bet. It’s performed pretty well under its new management; our profits have definitely started climbing toward the black over the past couple months. But our gradual turnaround hasn’t quite been the jaw-dropping comeback that would banish the board’s doubts. We’re still more of a gamble than they would like.

If we can’t use our ownership privileges for extra clout . . . well, that definitely still handicaps us, but our defeat isn’t assured yet. We’ll just have to make ourselves indispensable in other ways. We need to demonstrate two things: Tate & Cane is worth more alive than dead. And it’s worth more with Noah and me at the helm than with anyone else they can dig up.