Chapter 8

The boardroom buzzed with tension.

Kingsley stood at the head of the long polished table, twenty faces staring at him — some skeptical, some angry, some calculating.

Kingsley sat at the head of the long mahogany table, his fingers steepled under his chin, his sharp blue eyes flicking over the faces of the board members.

To his left, Michael Rowe — his father — sat with his arms crossed, jaw tight. To his right, Anna Rowe watched him anxiously, her hands folded tightly in her lap.

Across the table, the board members whispered among themselves. Men and women in expensive suits, some old, some young, all staring at Kingsley with thinly veiled doubt.

"Let's begin," Kingsley said, his voice steady.

For a moment, there was silence.

Then, one of the senior board members — an older man with silver hair and sharp glasses — leaned forward.

"Mr. Rowe," he began carefully, "you understand the situation you've put us in."

Kingsley gave a slight nod. "I do."

"The media fallout from your... absence," the man continued, "has been catastrophic. Investors are pulling back. Clients are doubting our leadership. Our stocks have dropped thirty percent."

"I know," Kingsley said quietly.

The man's eyes narrowed. "Do you, really?"

The words stung.

Kingsley took a breath.

He wanted to snap back — wanted to remind them who had once brought in the biggest mergers, who had landed the million-dollar deals, who had been called the young business genius on magazine covers.

But they were right.

He'd let himself fall.

He cleared his throat and straightened his shoulders.

"I won't waste your time with excuses. He exhaled slowly. "I made mistakes," he said. "And I take full responsibility. But I'm here now. I'm ready to repair the damage — and take this company further than we've ever gone."

For a moment, no one spoke.

Then, unexpectedly, his father's voice cut in.

"He has my full backing."

Kingsley's head jerked slightly in surprise.

The room rippled with murmurs.

Anna reached over, gently squeezing Kingsley's hand under the table.

Kingsley straightened, shoulders squaring.

He launched into the presentation — detailed financials, new partnerships, media strategies, restructuring plans. His voice grew stronger with each slide, each point. This was his battlefield. And he was taking it back.

The hours stretched, tension rising and falling with every argument, every counterpoint. Kingsley held his ground, shutting down objections, rallying reluctant allies, laying out vision after vision.

By the time the meeting ended, sweat trickled down his back, his throat was raw, and his hands trembled slightly under the table. But when the final vote came in — a cautious, begrudging yes — Kingsley exhaled and allowed himself a small, private smile.

One battle won.

The following weeks were brutal.

Kingsley barely slept.

He was in the office before dawn, long after the last assistant had gone home. He buried himself in market reports, investor calls, PR strategies, and financial recovery plans.

He met with department heads, lawyers, and consultants. He sat through endless meetings, reshuffling teams, approving budget cuts, and pushing through new innovations.

His face reappeared on magazine covers — "Kingsley Rowe: The Comeback," "Rowe Industries Rebuilds." Investors regained confidence. Stock prices inched back up.

But in the quiet moments — the 2 a.m. silences, the empty penthouse, the long car rides between meetings — his mind drifted to Katherine.

Her laugh. Her stubbornness. The way she had looked at him like he was a man, not a wreck.

He ached for her. But every time he reached for his phone, every time he thought of going back, another crisis hit the company. Another report. Another deal.

He told himself: Just a little longer. Just until we're stable. Then I'll go to her.

One night, after another endless strategy meeting, Kingsley sat alone in his office.

The building was empty, the city humming quietly beyond the glass.

He ran a hand through his hair, exhausted. His phone buzzed — another congratulatory message from a board member, another glowing article about his leadership.

But none of it mattered.

Not without her.

He stood abruptly. His chair scraped back, the city glowing outside the glass walls, staring at the same financial report he'd read three times. He couldn't focus. His chest felt tight. His hands shook slightly as he set the papers down.

He couldn't do this anymore.

He grabbed his coat. His assistant called after him, "Sir? Where are you—" but he was already out the door.

He didn't even remember telling the driver where to go. He only realized it when the car pulled up outside Katherine's old apartment.

Heart pounding, Kingsley stepped out, staring up at the dark windows.

Would she even be here? Would she even want to see him?

He squared his shoulders, his breath misting in the cold night air. He was done waiting.

Kingsley raised his hand and knocked softly on the door.

His heart thudded so loud in his chest that it was almost painful. He stood there, staring at the closed door, his breath caught somewhere between his throat and his chest.

No answer.

He knocked again, this time a little firmer, his knuckles brushing the worn wood.

For a moment, there was only silence — the kind of silence that stretched too long, that made doubt slip in, made the what-ifs creep through the cracks.

Then, from inside, a voice floated out, muffled through the door.

"Who is that?"

Kingsley froze. His breath hitched.

That voice.

That soft, familiar, lovely voice.

For a second, the world blurred around him. He could hear the sound of her laughter in his memory, the gentle way she used to tease him, the sharp snap in her voice when she scolded him for drinking too much. He remembered the nights they spent sitting close together, her eyes shining with curiosity, the warmth of her presence that had once kept the coldest parts of him at bay.

God, he thought. How did I survive this long without her?

But just as his mind drifted deeper into memory, another voice — this time, her voice again, more direct, closer to the door — pulled him sharply back.

"I said, who is that?"

Kingsley's mouth went dry. He swallowed, his hand flexing at his side. His heart hammered as he forced the words out, voice rough.

"It's me."

There was a pause.

He heard faint movements inside — the sound of feet crossing the floor, the soft creak of the door handle.

And then, the door slowly opened.

Time seemed to stretch, slowing everything to a crawl.

There she was.

Katherine.