Cosmic by celeste, p.16
Cosmic by Celeste, page 16
He grinned. “True. But it’d be a different news cycle.”
She set her mug down and stared at the condensation ring it left. “I don’t want to run. Not anymore.”
“Me neither,” he said quietly. “But I’m glad we paused. Even for a day.”
They packed in silence. Thad folded her sweaters with more care than his own; she zipped his duffel and double-checked that he hadn’t forgotten his prescription. The ordinary intimacy of it felt like a promise.
On the way to the car, they made one last circuit of the beach, the tide out and the sand littered with kelp and the bones of ancient clams. Thad picked up a piece of driftwood, twirled it like a baton, and said, “You know, if this goes badly tomorrow, I might end up teaching elementary school music in Queens.”
She took the stick from him, broke it in half, and said, “You’d be great at it. Until you were arrested for inciting a riot.”
He laughed, hugged her, and she let herself lean in before the wind forced them apart.
The drive back was a slow, reluctant reentry. Celeste checked her phone at every rest stop: three voicemails from her team about “formulation issues,” a text from Maya, “Please call me ASAP,” all caps, and a news alert about the latest boardroom coup attempt.
Thad drove one-handed, the other tapping out restless beats on the steering wheel. They didn’t talk much, but the silence was comfortable, a buffer against the noise waiting in Manhattan.
At the city limits, the skyline rose like a dare. Thad veered off the main road, parked a block from Celeste’s apartment, and killed the engine. Outside, the air was damp and restless, already thick with the possibility of snow.
He turned to her, his face shadowed by the streetlight. “Tomorrow’s going to suck.”
She nodded. “But at least we’ll be ready.”
He reached over, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and kissed her, soft, unhurried, a benediction and a challenge all at once. She kissed him back, letting the moment burn itself into memory.
“See you on the other side?” he asked.
She smiled. “Count on it.”
She stepped out, duffel over her shoulder, and walked the last block home without looking back. At the entrance, she paused, checked her reflection in the glass, and let herself hope, for a heartbeat, that maybe they could win.
Upstairs, she set her bag down, opened her laptop, and began reading the emails: her team’s panic, Natalie’s rapid-fire briefings, and the HR department’s careful, coded warnings. She replied to each, steady and professional, but at the end of every message she typed and deleted, “We’ve got this.”
She didn’t know if it was true. But she wanted it to be.
Below, the city glowed, restless as ever, but she felt a little less alone in it.
Tomorrow, they’d go back to war. Tonight, she had the memory of the ocean, of Thad’s hands, and the knowledge that sometimes, even in this world, a pause could mean everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The boardroom at Chic Alchemy is an X-ray of power. Sunlight ricochets off polished mahogany and into the faces of the assembled directors, slicing shadows into their crow’s feet and whitening their knuckles as they grip pencils, espresso cups, and the arms of leather chairs. The walls are pale, unsparing, the kind of color scheme chosen by men who think they can intimidate light. At the far end of the table, Richard presides over a sleek laptop, the blue of the presentation screen sharpening the lines in his jaw, his cheekbones, and the streak of silver in his regulation-perfect hair.
Thad enters with Celeste behind, her hand firm on the small of his back, more bouncer than date. He’s in a suit, unaccustomed but buttoned with intent, hair tied in a way that is neither apology nor provocation. Celeste is all graphite and silk, eyes scanning the table for threats before she even sits.
Natalie is already there, two seats down, a notepad open to a page of action verbs and circles in three colors. She clocks Thad’s entry with a fractional nod, then returns to her silent war against the day’s agenda.
The other board members, a menagerie of old-money genetics and second-tier aristocracy, regard Thad with a cocktail of boredom and thinly disguised hunger. The air is thick with the perfume of generational wealth and the more subtle notes of manufactured anxiety: bergamot, sweat, the ammoniac tang of fear in a confined space.
Richard stands, cues the projector, and says, “Thank you for joining us. I know this wasn’t on the original calendar, but as you all have seen, events have overtaken us.” His voice is a weapons-grade calm, calibrated to impress donors and terrify competitors.
He clicks the remote. The screen behind him blooms to life with the first slide: a photo of Thad at nineteen, shirtless and back-arched on a festival stage, with a thundercloud of hair and a grin designed for sin. The next slide is worse: Thad, backstage, sprawled in the lap of a tattooed woman with a joint in his left hand and what is almost certainly not iced tea in his right.
“Let’s begin,” says Richard, gesturing at the screen as if introducing a particularly recalcitrant piece of evidence. “As most of you are aware, our CEO has a… colorful past.” He gives the word a hint of acid and lets it fizz in the air. “While we value diversity of experience, the recent media coverage has raised serious questions about the suitability of our current leadership.”
He clicks again. A tabloid headline, blown up for maximum shaming: HASTINGS HEIR PARTIES AWAY MOTHER’S LEGACY. Below it, a smaller sub-head: WILD NIGHTS, QUESTIONABLE FRIENDS, ROCK-STAR SHENANIGANS.
Thad keeps his face locked, but the slow-rolling slideshow is a car crash in slow motion: groupie photos, blurry onstage moments, and a lineup of police mugshots from cities he barely remembers visiting.
A cough from the end of the table, a director in horn-rimmed glasses, twice-divorced and recently named to the board on the strength of her family foundation. “Is all of this… necessary?”
Richard smiles, a precise flex of forty years' worth of dental work. “Transparency is critical, especially with the upcoming shareholder call.”
Another click, and the screen shifts from grainy debauchery to a pie chart: SOCIAL MEDIA SENTIMENT ANALYSIS- Q4. It is primarily red, with a sliver of green barely visible at the top.
“I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a dossier,” Richard continues. “As you’ll see, the trending sentiment is overwhelmingly negative. The press, our partners, and even some of our employees are concerned about public perception and long-term brand risk. I think it’s our duty to address these concerns before they spiral.”
He lets the word spiral hang, uncoiling toward Thad like a snake looking for a vein.
A director with a mustache like a roadkill squirrel leans forward. “What, precisely, do you propose?”
Richard turns to face Thad, his eyes softening in a way that is somehow more terrifying than anger. “I’d like to open the floor to Thaddeus. Perhaps he can… contextualize.”
All eyes pivot to Thad, who feels the room close around him. He hears the hum of the air vent, the tick of Natalie’s pen, and the way Celeste’s breathing sharpens when she leans into fight mode.
He stands slowly, palms flat on the table.
“I won’t pretend I’m a saint,” he says. “I played music for a living. I did drugs. I dated people the press wouldn’t put on the cover of Town & Country. If that’s the worst you can dig up, then congratulations, you found it.”
A ripple of laughter, not entirely hostile.
“But here’s the part you left out.” He gestures at the slides. “Every one of those shows, every party, every after-hours gig, I was building something. Community. Audience. Something that didn’t exist until I made it happen. That’s what my mother taught me. Not to play it safe, but to make something that lasts. Even if you get a little bruised along the way.”
He pauses and lets the words settle. “I’m not here to defend bad behavior. But I am here to say that I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not. I don’t need to.”
Richard is unreadable, but several board members shift, uncrossing their arms, a few even making eye contact for the first time.
Celeste stands, voice clear as glass. “Thad’s past isn’t a liability. It’s proof that he’s survived. Everyone here was shaped by something, and if you think a few headlines are going to change the way the next generation sees this company, you’re missing the point.” She turns and addresses the room. “We are not a funeral home. We make things that matter. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.”
The board goes silent, the only sound being the slow, nervous shuffle of hands and the distant shriek of the city below.
Richard allows himself a fractional nod. “Thank you. That’s all unless there are further questions.”
A voice from the far end: “How do we move forward?”
Richard smiles slowly. “That’s the agenda for our next meeting.”
As the directors file out, some deliberately slowly, a few with sideways glances that are more curious than judgmental, Thad sits and exhales. He feels Celeste’s hand on his, cool and steady.
Natalie collects her notepad and murmurs, “Not bad for your first public crucifixion. Want to get a drink?”
Thad grins, the adrenaline still burning. “God, yes.”
They walk out together, the boardroom’s ghosts fading with every step, the future no less dangerous but, for the moment, a little more possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The executive floor is colder after a board meeting; the thermostats have been ratcheted down for some late-capitalist cost-saving measure. Thad’s office is all glass and chrome, a cubist aquavit of unfinished liquor bottles, unread mail, and a guitar in the corner that might as well be a painting for how often it’s touched.
Natalie is already there, perched on the edge of his desk, fingers flicking through a rapid-fire scroll of emails on her tablet. She’s swapped her earlier blazer for a turtleneck and minimalist jewelry, but the war-room intensity is undimmed.
She speaks without looking up. “We need to reframe your narrative. Immediately. If we don’t, Richard will.”
Thad slumps into his chair. “Did you see the look on their faces? I don’t think a killer soundbite is going to fix this.”
She stops scrolling and leans forward, eyes hard. “You’re missing the point. It’s not about fixing. It’s about controlling. We transform your past into an asset. You’re not a liability. You’re an artist who lived a little too fast. This is America. People eat that up.”
He’s silent, studying the edge of his desk as if it might offer a clue.
Natalie continues, softer now. “We’ll start with the fashion rags. GQ, maybe even Vanity Fair. You do an interview about how you’re ‘finding maturity’ and ‘embracing legacy.’ We show you in tailored suits, nothing too slick. You discuss how music taught you about leadership, improvisation, and teamwork. That’s it. You don’t apologize. You act like this was always the plan.”
Thad considers this. “And Celeste?”
She doesn’t flinch. “You keep it quiet for now. The tabloids are already circling, and if Richard can pin an HR violation on you, we’re sunk. I’m not saying I don’t see her. I’m saying, be careful. Please.”
He nods, the motion conveying both gratitude and resignation.
Natalie puts the tablet down and finally meets his gaze. “Look, Thad. You survived today. That’s more than I can say for most people who go up against Richard. Take the win, even if it tastes like shit.”
He almost smiles. “Was it always this cutthroat?”
She shrugs. “Only since people realized you could lose everything in a headline.”
She stands and collects her things. “I’ll start the calls. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
She leaves, the door hushing closed behind her.
*
He kills the lights but doesn’t go home. Instead, he drifts down to the café in the lobby, half-lit, half-empty, the night staff cleaning espresso machines and gossiping in Spanish. Celeste is there, tucked into a booth, back to the wall, her tablet open to a page of chemical formulas and sales projections. There’s a smudge of graphite on her cheek.
She looks up when he enters, and the tension in her shoulders softens by a few degrees.
He slides in opposite her, tries for a smile, and fails. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
She shrugs. “The numbers are easier than people.”
He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “I could use a few fewer people right now.”
She closes her tablet and folds her hands. “Was it bad?”
He considers lying, then decides not to. “Richard brought the whole circus. Old photos, headlines, shit I’d forgotten about. Made it look like I was the world’s worst accident.”
She tilts her head, sympathetic but not pitying. “Were you?”
He laughs, a dry, scraping sound. “I wasn’t careful. I lived. Music was how I escaped. My father wanted me to be a lawyer, and I thought if I got far enough away, Europe, Berlin, anywhere, it wouldn’t matter. But it always does.”
She waits and lets the silence be generous.
He drums his fingers on the table. “I never wanted the company. But I never wanted to disappoint her, either.”
Celeste reaches across the table and rests her hand on his, cool and steady. “You’re not disappointing anyone.”
He lets her hold it and allows the noise and pressure to dissolve for a moment.
They sit like that, silent, the night crowd thinning around them, the world reduced to the radius of their joined hands.
Finally, she says, “I don’t care about your past. I care about now.”
He breathes out the first clean exhale in days.
“Me too,” he says.
They stay until the lights flicker and the staff start stacking chairs, then walk out together into the frozen city, their footsteps echoing off glass and stone. No one follows. No one shouts their names. For a few blocks, at least, it feels almost normal.
And for Thad, that’s enough to keep going.
It’s nearly midnight, and the diner’s neon is leaking through the rain, painting the sidewalk with a smirk of blue and orange. Inside, the tables are full of shift workers and the city’s last honest insomniacs, all hunched over mugs that have been refilled too often to still taste like coffee.
Natalie sits in a back booth, her coat still wet from the walk, a manila envelope in front of her, and a half-empty plate of pie at her elbow. Across from her, the PI is precise as advertised: ex-cop, face like a fallen cake, tie loosened but not in a way that suggests comfort.
Natalie slides the envelope across the sticky Formica. “I need this yesterday,” she says.
The PI opens the folder. Photos, dates, and a typed sheet with half the ink bled into the margin. At the top, in her own hand: “Richard Fellows. Leverage.”
He grunts and sips his black coffee. “You want the standard? Or are you looking for something special?”
She taps the table. “I want everything. Travel, financial, and family. If he so much as jaywalked, I want a photo.”
The PI licks a finger and turns a page. “He’s slick. We’ve tried before.”
Natalie’s voice is pure crystal. “Try harder. This time, you have the timetable.” She points at the circled date: “Shareholder call, two weeks.”
He glances up, his eyes clearer than she expected. “This is for your guy, the new CEO?”
She nods. “He needs a win. Even a small one.”
The PI shrugs and shoves the envelope into a battered briefcase. “Cash or check?”
“Cash,” she says and slides him a bundle that’s been counted twice, banded with a yellow rubber band.
He pockets it, stands, and nods. “You’ll get the first update in forty-eight. Call if you want to expand the scope.”
She watches him go, watches his reflection blur and reform in the rain outside. She waits until he’s across the street before pulling out her phone, thumbs gliding through texts and emails, the litany of digital ghosts that make up her waking hours.
The phone rings, surprising her. Thad’s name flashes on the screen.
She answers, voice all business. “You awake?”
He sounds tired but not defeated. “Barely. You got a minute?”
“For you, always,” she says, and means it.
Thad is in the attic of the manor, surrounded by boxes that smell of mothballs, old newsprint, and a species of regret particular to untouchable family archives. He’s perched on a folding chair, knees tucked under his chin, a VHS tape in one hand and a battered yellow legal pad in the other.
He’s been at it for hours, chasing the ghosts of his mother through a hundred interviews, board minutes, and unsent letters. Every tape is a time capsule: Jocelyn at forty, at fifty, at sixty, her voice changing, but her words consistently crisp, always edged with that peculiar Hastings confidence.
He pops a tape into the old combo player, hits play, and listens. Jocelyn on local TV, talking about the company’s expansion into Asia. He leans forward as if she might turn and address him directly. “If you build a business on personality alone, it dies with you,” she says, her gaze steady. “But if you build it on values, it outlives your reputation.”
Thad hits pause and scribbles on the legal pad. Personality is dead. Values are legacy. He wonders which one he is.
His phone buzzes. He checks the caller ID and recognizes the area code —Natalie’s burner, the one she uses only when things are serious.
He answers, “Tell me you have something.”
She sighs a sound like steam from a cracked valve. “I’m working on it. The PI says Richard is squeaky, but everyone’s got something. You want to go through with this?”
He hesitates. “I don’t know. Blackmail’s not in the family playbook.”
Natalie snorts. “Your mother did worse if it meant protecting the company.”
“Yeah, but she never got caught.”
A beat. “What do you want, Thad?”
He looks around the attic, at the detritus of three generations, at the photos and trophies, and the one battered suitcase labeled “Piano Camp- 1994.” He wants to laugh, or cry, or burn it all down.
She set her mug down and stared at the condensation ring it left. “I don’t want to run. Not anymore.”
“Me neither,” he said quietly. “But I’m glad we paused. Even for a day.”
They packed in silence. Thad folded her sweaters with more care than his own; she zipped his duffel and double-checked that he hadn’t forgotten his prescription. The ordinary intimacy of it felt like a promise.
On the way to the car, they made one last circuit of the beach, the tide out and the sand littered with kelp and the bones of ancient clams. Thad picked up a piece of driftwood, twirled it like a baton, and said, “You know, if this goes badly tomorrow, I might end up teaching elementary school music in Queens.”
She took the stick from him, broke it in half, and said, “You’d be great at it. Until you were arrested for inciting a riot.”
He laughed, hugged her, and she let herself lean in before the wind forced them apart.
The drive back was a slow, reluctant reentry. Celeste checked her phone at every rest stop: three voicemails from her team about “formulation issues,” a text from Maya, “Please call me ASAP,” all caps, and a news alert about the latest boardroom coup attempt.
Thad drove one-handed, the other tapping out restless beats on the steering wheel. They didn’t talk much, but the silence was comfortable, a buffer against the noise waiting in Manhattan.
At the city limits, the skyline rose like a dare. Thad veered off the main road, parked a block from Celeste’s apartment, and killed the engine. Outside, the air was damp and restless, already thick with the possibility of snow.
He turned to her, his face shadowed by the streetlight. “Tomorrow’s going to suck.”
She nodded. “But at least we’ll be ready.”
He reached over, brushed a strand of hair from her cheek, and kissed her, soft, unhurried, a benediction and a challenge all at once. She kissed him back, letting the moment burn itself into memory.
“See you on the other side?” he asked.
She smiled. “Count on it.”
She stepped out, duffel over her shoulder, and walked the last block home without looking back. At the entrance, she paused, checked her reflection in the glass, and let herself hope, for a heartbeat, that maybe they could win.
Upstairs, she set her bag down, opened her laptop, and began reading the emails: her team’s panic, Natalie’s rapid-fire briefings, and the HR department’s careful, coded warnings. She replied to each, steady and professional, but at the end of every message she typed and deleted, “We’ve got this.”
She didn’t know if it was true. But she wanted it to be.
Below, the city glowed, restless as ever, but she felt a little less alone in it.
Tomorrow, they’d go back to war. Tonight, she had the memory of the ocean, of Thad’s hands, and the knowledge that sometimes, even in this world, a pause could mean everything.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN
The boardroom at Chic Alchemy is an X-ray of power. Sunlight ricochets off polished mahogany and into the faces of the assembled directors, slicing shadows into their crow’s feet and whitening their knuckles as they grip pencils, espresso cups, and the arms of leather chairs. The walls are pale, unsparing, the kind of color scheme chosen by men who think they can intimidate light. At the far end of the table, Richard presides over a sleek laptop, the blue of the presentation screen sharpening the lines in his jaw, his cheekbones, and the streak of silver in his regulation-perfect hair.
Thad enters with Celeste behind, her hand firm on the small of his back, more bouncer than date. He’s in a suit, unaccustomed but buttoned with intent, hair tied in a way that is neither apology nor provocation. Celeste is all graphite and silk, eyes scanning the table for threats before she even sits.
Natalie is already there, two seats down, a notepad open to a page of action verbs and circles in three colors. She clocks Thad’s entry with a fractional nod, then returns to her silent war against the day’s agenda.
The other board members, a menagerie of old-money genetics and second-tier aristocracy, regard Thad with a cocktail of boredom and thinly disguised hunger. The air is thick with the perfume of generational wealth and the more subtle notes of manufactured anxiety: bergamot, sweat, the ammoniac tang of fear in a confined space.
Richard stands, cues the projector, and says, “Thank you for joining us. I know this wasn’t on the original calendar, but as you all have seen, events have overtaken us.” His voice is a weapons-grade calm, calibrated to impress donors and terrify competitors.
He clicks the remote. The screen behind him blooms to life with the first slide: a photo of Thad at nineteen, shirtless and back-arched on a festival stage, with a thundercloud of hair and a grin designed for sin. The next slide is worse: Thad, backstage, sprawled in the lap of a tattooed woman with a joint in his left hand and what is almost certainly not iced tea in his right.
“Let’s begin,” says Richard, gesturing at the screen as if introducing a particularly recalcitrant piece of evidence. “As most of you are aware, our CEO has a… colorful past.” He gives the word a hint of acid and lets it fizz in the air. “While we value diversity of experience, the recent media coverage has raised serious questions about the suitability of our current leadership.”
He clicks again. A tabloid headline, blown up for maximum shaming: HASTINGS HEIR PARTIES AWAY MOTHER’S LEGACY. Below it, a smaller sub-head: WILD NIGHTS, QUESTIONABLE FRIENDS, ROCK-STAR SHENANIGANS.
Thad keeps his face locked, but the slow-rolling slideshow is a car crash in slow motion: groupie photos, blurry onstage moments, and a lineup of police mugshots from cities he barely remembers visiting.
A cough from the end of the table, a director in horn-rimmed glasses, twice-divorced and recently named to the board on the strength of her family foundation. “Is all of this… necessary?”
Richard smiles, a precise flex of forty years' worth of dental work. “Transparency is critical, especially with the upcoming shareholder call.”
Another click, and the screen shifts from grainy debauchery to a pie chart: SOCIAL MEDIA SENTIMENT ANALYSIS- Q4. It is primarily red, with a sliver of green barely visible at the top.
“I’ve taken the liberty of compiling a dossier,” Richard continues. “As you’ll see, the trending sentiment is overwhelmingly negative. The press, our partners, and even some of our employees are concerned about public perception and long-term brand risk. I think it’s our duty to address these concerns before they spiral.”
He lets the word spiral hang, uncoiling toward Thad like a snake looking for a vein.
A director with a mustache like a roadkill squirrel leans forward. “What, precisely, do you propose?”
Richard turns to face Thad, his eyes softening in a way that is somehow more terrifying than anger. “I’d like to open the floor to Thaddeus. Perhaps he can… contextualize.”
All eyes pivot to Thad, who feels the room close around him. He hears the hum of the air vent, the tick of Natalie’s pen, and the way Celeste’s breathing sharpens when she leans into fight mode.
He stands slowly, palms flat on the table.
“I won’t pretend I’m a saint,” he says. “I played music for a living. I did drugs. I dated people the press wouldn’t put on the cover of Town & Country. If that’s the worst you can dig up, then congratulations, you found it.”
A ripple of laughter, not entirely hostile.
“But here’s the part you left out.” He gestures at the slides. “Every one of those shows, every party, every after-hours gig, I was building something. Community. Audience. Something that didn’t exist until I made it happen. That’s what my mother taught me. Not to play it safe, but to make something that lasts. Even if you get a little bruised along the way.”
He pauses and lets the words settle. “I’m not here to defend bad behavior. But I am here to say that I’ve never pretended to be someone I’m not. I don’t need to.”
Richard is unreadable, but several board members shift, uncrossing their arms, a few even making eye contact for the first time.
Celeste stands, voice clear as glass. “Thad’s past isn’t a liability. It’s proof that he’s survived. Everyone here was shaped by something, and if you think a few headlines are going to change the way the next generation sees this company, you’re missing the point.” She turns and addresses the room. “We are not a funeral home. We make things that matter. Let’s stop pretending otherwise.”
The board goes silent, the only sound being the slow, nervous shuffle of hands and the distant shriek of the city below.
Richard allows himself a fractional nod. “Thank you. That’s all unless there are further questions.”
A voice from the far end: “How do we move forward?”
Richard smiles slowly. “That’s the agenda for our next meeting.”
As the directors file out, some deliberately slowly, a few with sideways glances that are more curious than judgmental, Thad sits and exhales. He feels Celeste’s hand on his, cool and steady.
Natalie collects her notepad and murmurs, “Not bad for your first public crucifixion. Want to get a drink?”
Thad grins, the adrenaline still burning. “God, yes.”
They walk out together, the boardroom’s ghosts fading with every step, the future no less dangerous but, for the moment, a little more possible.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
The executive floor is colder after a board meeting; the thermostats have been ratcheted down for some late-capitalist cost-saving measure. Thad’s office is all glass and chrome, a cubist aquavit of unfinished liquor bottles, unread mail, and a guitar in the corner that might as well be a painting for how often it’s touched.
Natalie is already there, perched on the edge of his desk, fingers flicking through a rapid-fire scroll of emails on her tablet. She’s swapped her earlier blazer for a turtleneck and minimalist jewelry, but the war-room intensity is undimmed.
She speaks without looking up. “We need to reframe your narrative. Immediately. If we don’t, Richard will.”
Thad slumps into his chair. “Did you see the look on their faces? I don’t think a killer soundbite is going to fix this.”
She stops scrolling and leans forward, eyes hard. “You’re missing the point. It’s not about fixing. It’s about controlling. We transform your past into an asset. You’re not a liability. You’re an artist who lived a little too fast. This is America. People eat that up.”
He’s silent, studying the edge of his desk as if it might offer a clue.
Natalie continues, softer now. “We’ll start with the fashion rags. GQ, maybe even Vanity Fair. You do an interview about how you’re ‘finding maturity’ and ‘embracing legacy.’ We show you in tailored suits, nothing too slick. You discuss how music taught you about leadership, improvisation, and teamwork. That’s it. You don’t apologize. You act like this was always the plan.”
Thad considers this. “And Celeste?”
She doesn’t flinch. “You keep it quiet for now. The tabloids are already circling, and if Richard can pin an HR violation on you, we’re sunk. I’m not saying I don’t see her. I’m saying, be careful. Please.”
He nods, the motion conveying both gratitude and resignation.
Natalie puts the tablet down and finally meets his gaze. “Look, Thad. You survived today. That’s more than I can say for most people who go up against Richard. Take the win, even if it tastes like shit.”
He almost smiles. “Was it always this cutthroat?”
She shrugs. “Only since people realized you could lose everything in a headline.”
She stands and collects her things. “I’ll start the calls. Get some rest. You’ll need it.”
She leaves, the door hushing closed behind her.
*
He kills the lights but doesn’t go home. Instead, he drifts down to the café in the lobby, half-lit, half-empty, the night staff cleaning espresso machines and gossiping in Spanish. Celeste is there, tucked into a booth, back to the wall, her tablet open to a page of chemical formulas and sales projections. There’s a smudge of graphite on her cheek.
She looks up when he enters, and the tension in her shoulders softens by a few degrees.
He slides in opposite her, tries for a smile, and fails. “Didn’t think you’d still be here.”
She shrugs. “The numbers are easier than people.”
He nods and runs a hand through his hair. “I could use a few fewer people right now.”
She closes her tablet and folds her hands. “Was it bad?”
He considers lying, then decides not to. “Richard brought the whole circus. Old photos, headlines, shit I’d forgotten about. Made it look like I was the world’s worst accident.”
She tilts her head, sympathetic but not pitying. “Were you?”
He laughs, a dry, scraping sound. “I wasn’t careful. I lived. Music was how I escaped. My father wanted me to be a lawyer, and I thought if I got far enough away, Europe, Berlin, anywhere, it wouldn’t matter. But it always does.”
She waits and lets the silence be generous.
He drums his fingers on the table. “I never wanted the company. But I never wanted to disappoint her, either.”
Celeste reaches across the table and rests her hand on his, cool and steady. “You’re not disappointing anyone.”
He lets her hold it and allows the noise and pressure to dissolve for a moment.
They sit like that, silent, the night crowd thinning around them, the world reduced to the radius of their joined hands.
Finally, she says, “I don’t care about your past. I care about now.”
He breathes out the first clean exhale in days.
“Me too,” he says.
They stay until the lights flicker and the staff start stacking chairs, then walk out together into the frozen city, their footsteps echoing off glass and stone. No one follows. No one shouts their names. For a few blocks, at least, it feels almost normal.
And for Thad, that’s enough to keep going.
It’s nearly midnight, and the diner’s neon is leaking through the rain, painting the sidewalk with a smirk of blue and orange. Inside, the tables are full of shift workers and the city’s last honest insomniacs, all hunched over mugs that have been refilled too often to still taste like coffee.
Natalie sits in a back booth, her coat still wet from the walk, a manila envelope in front of her, and a half-empty plate of pie at her elbow. Across from her, the PI is precise as advertised: ex-cop, face like a fallen cake, tie loosened but not in a way that suggests comfort.
Natalie slides the envelope across the sticky Formica. “I need this yesterday,” she says.
The PI opens the folder. Photos, dates, and a typed sheet with half the ink bled into the margin. At the top, in her own hand: “Richard Fellows. Leverage.”
He grunts and sips his black coffee. “You want the standard? Or are you looking for something special?”
She taps the table. “I want everything. Travel, financial, and family. If he so much as jaywalked, I want a photo.”
The PI licks a finger and turns a page. “He’s slick. We’ve tried before.”
Natalie’s voice is pure crystal. “Try harder. This time, you have the timetable.” She points at the circled date: “Shareholder call, two weeks.”
He glances up, his eyes clearer than she expected. “This is for your guy, the new CEO?”
She nods. “He needs a win. Even a small one.”
The PI shrugs and shoves the envelope into a battered briefcase. “Cash or check?”
“Cash,” she says and slides him a bundle that’s been counted twice, banded with a yellow rubber band.
He pockets it, stands, and nods. “You’ll get the first update in forty-eight. Call if you want to expand the scope.”
She watches him go, watches his reflection blur and reform in the rain outside. She waits until he’s across the street before pulling out her phone, thumbs gliding through texts and emails, the litany of digital ghosts that make up her waking hours.
The phone rings, surprising her. Thad’s name flashes on the screen.
She answers, voice all business. “You awake?”
He sounds tired but not defeated. “Barely. You got a minute?”
“For you, always,” she says, and means it.
Thad is in the attic of the manor, surrounded by boxes that smell of mothballs, old newsprint, and a species of regret particular to untouchable family archives. He’s perched on a folding chair, knees tucked under his chin, a VHS tape in one hand and a battered yellow legal pad in the other.
He’s been at it for hours, chasing the ghosts of his mother through a hundred interviews, board minutes, and unsent letters. Every tape is a time capsule: Jocelyn at forty, at fifty, at sixty, her voice changing, but her words consistently crisp, always edged with that peculiar Hastings confidence.
He pops a tape into the old combo player, hits play, and listens. Jocelyn on local TV, talking about the company’s expansion into Asia. He leans forward as if she might turn and address him directly. “If you build a business on personality alone, it dies with you,” she says, her gaze steady. “But if you build it on values, it outlives your reputation.”
Thad hits pause and scribbles on the legal pad. Personality is dead. Values are legacy. He wonders which one he is.
His phone buzzes. He checks the caller ID and recognizes the area code —Natalie’s burner, the one she uses only when things are serious.
He answers, “Tell me you have something.”
She sighs a sound like steam from a cracked valve. “I’m working on it. The PI says Richard is squeaky, but everyone’s got something. You want to go through with this?”
He hesitates. “I don’t know. Blackmail’s not in the family playbook.”
Natalie snorts. “Your mother did worse if it meant protecting the company.”
“Yeah, but she never got caught.”
A beat. “What do you want, Thad?”
He looks around the attic, at the detritus of three generations, at the photos and trophies, and the one battered suitcase labeled “Piano Camp- 1994.” He wants to laugh, or cry, or burn it all down.
