I look back down at the main floor. There are no doors save for the one leading to the bathroom. Excuse me, I say. My voice sounds louder than I intend. It's an architectural retreat, Delano.
It was designed for minimal internal obstruction, she says smoothly, opening the refrigerator and pulling out a bottle of sparkling water. I sleep in the loft. You have the couch. I stare at the couch. It's deep and expensive, but it's in the middle of the room.
You booked one cabin, I say, trying to keep the edge out of my voice. With one bed for the two of us. She twists the cap off her water and takes a sip, finally turning to look at me. Her expression is utterly unbothered. It was the only secure location I own within driving distance of Oak Haven, she says.
And I don't trust local hotels. We have a multi-million dollar negotiation tomorrow. We need to finalize the strategy tonight. Vivien, I say, dropping the formality for the first time in three years. I am a 34 year old man.
You are the CEO of the company I work for. We cannot cohabitate in a single room. She leans against the marble counter. For a second, a flicker of something. Annoyance, amusement crosses her face.
Are you uncomfortable, Dano? She asks. I am professional, I correct her. And this is a massive HR violation waiting to happen. HR reports to me, she says flatly.
I don't care about optics. I care about leverage. I care about waking up at 5:00 a. M. Tomorrow, running through the Oak Haven Financials while we drink coffee in this exact room and then driving down that mountain to crush their board.
She sets the water bottle down. She steps closer. She isn't tall, maybe 5'6 in her boots, but her presence takes up all the oxygen in the room. "You are my fixer. I brought you here to fix this deal," she says, her voice dropping a fraction of an octave.
"I didn't bring you here to worry about where you sleep. Don't overthink it, Dano. Take the couch. " She turns and walks toward the open steel staircase leading to the loft. I stand there, the silence pressing in on me from the dark woods outside. The fire crackles.
I look at the couch. I look at my duffel bag. I am trapped in a glass box in the middle of nowhere with a woman who views human boundaries as minor logistical errors. I sigh, dragging a hand down my face. Fine.
By 10 p. M., the blizzard has intensified. The wind howls against the glass walls, a brutal low frequency roar. I am sitting at the kitchen island, staring at my laptop. My eyes burn.
I've run the amatization schedules on Oak Haven's debts three times. I know every vulnerability they have. I know exactly where Viven is going to twist the knife tomorrow. Up in the loft, a single reading light is on. I can't see her from this angle, but I can hear the faint rustle of paper.
She hasn't slept either. My phone buzzes on the marble counter. It's a FaceTime call. Sarah. I snatch it up instantly, checking the battery, and hit accept.
Sarah's face fills the screen, looking exhausted, standing in her cramped kitchen. Behind her, sitting at the table in his pajamas, is Lionus. "Hey, buddy," I say, instantly, keeping my voice low so it doesn't carry up to the loft. My chest tightens the way it always does when I see him through a screen instead of in person. "Daddy," Lionus yells.
He holds up a drawing. It's a chaotic smear of blue and red crayon. I drew Spider-Man. I see that. I smile, leaning closer to the phone.
That's a masterpiece. Did you use your inhaler before bed? Aunt Sarah made me. He pouts. Good.
You listen to Aunt Sarah. I rub my eyes. I'm sorry I'm not there to read your book tonight, pal. I'll make it up to you. I promise.
Are you in the snow? Lionus asks, peering at the screen. I glance back at the black glass behind me. Yeah, it's really snowy here. A big mountain.
Can you bring me a snowball? It might melt on the airplane, I laugh softly, but I'll get you something better. Sarah leans into the frame, her expression softening. He's fine, Dave. Go to sleep.
You look like hell. I'm working on it, I say. Thanks for doing this, Sarah. Really? Just buy my groceries next week and we're square.
She smirks. Love you. Say good night, Lennis. Night, Dad. The screen goes dark.
I set the phone down and stare at my own reflection in the blank screen. The exhaustion is deep, sinking into my bones. He looks like you. I flinch, turning around quickly. Viven is standing at the base of the stairs.
She's changed out of her work clothes into heavy dark sweatpants and an oversized gray Henley. Her hair is down, falling in dark waves past her shoulders. It is the most informal I have ever seen her. It throws me off balance entirely. "I didn't know you were listening," I say, my voice guarded.
"I wasn't trying to," she says, walking toward the kitchen. "Sound travels in an open floor plan. You're very quiet with him, gentle. He's six, I say defensively. Should I treat him like a hostile shareholder?
Vivien pauses, her hand on a crystal decanter of scotch that was sitting on a side table. She looks at me, her face unreadable. No, I suppose not. She pours two glasses of the scotch. She picks them up and walks over to the island, sliding one across the smooth stone toward me.
"I don't drink on the clock," I say, looking at the amber liquid. "The clock stopped 2 hours ago," Vivien replies, pulling out a stool and sitting across from me. "Drink it, Delano. You look like you're going to snap in half. " I hesitate, then pick up the glass. The scotch is smooth, burning a hot, welcome trail down my throat.
We sit in silence for a minute. The wind batters the cabin. Why are we really here, Vivien? I ask. The whiskey is making me reckless.
You could have done this negotiation over a secure line. You could have sent the legal team to Boseman. You didn't need to drag me to a glass box in a blizzard. She swirls the scotch in her glass. She doesn't look angry at the question.
She looks tired. Oak Haven's founder, Richard Vance, isn't just a stubborn businessman, Vivien says quietly. He was my father's partner. 20 years ago, they bought a massive tract of land in Colorado together. Vance panicked during a market dip and forced a sail at a massive loss.
It almost bankrupted my father. The stress caused his first heart attack. I stare at her. She has never spoken about her father to me. Nobody at the company speaks about him.
This isn't just an acquisition, I realize, leaning forward. This is a vendetta. Viven meets my eyes. Her gaze is sharp, stripping away the vulnerability she just showed. This is a necessary market correction.
Vance built Oak Haven on the capital he salvaged by abandoning my father. I am simply reclaiming the asset. And me, I ask. Why am I here? Because you don't panic, she says simply.
When things get messy, when people get emotional, you shut down and execute. Vance is going to get emotional tomorrow. He's going to beg. He's going to talk about legacy and family. If I brought the legal team, they'd blink.
I need someone sitting next to me who won't. I look down at my glass. You brought me because I'm ruthless. I brought you because you know what it's like to survive. She corrects softly.
The words hang in the air. The space between us across the marble island suddenly feels very small. I can smell her perfume, something sharp and expensive, like cedar and cold air. I realize with a sudden sinking dread that I am not just her employee right now. Sitting here in the dark with the storm raging outside, the corporate hierarchy feels thin and fragile.