Chapter 82 The emergency
Timothy
I didn’t remember it was my birthday when I woke up.
That probably says something about me.
Or maybe it says something about the kind of life I’ve built, one where dates blur and milestones dissolve into meetings and mergers and quarterly forecasts.
By eight a.m., I’m already on my third call.
By nine, I’m in the first conference room of the day with Rowan, staring at projections that make my temples throb.
The issue is minor in theory.
It is never minor in practice.
“Pull up the revised liquidity model,” I tell the finance lead, not bothering to mask the edge in my voice. “If we absorb that acquisition at their current debt ratio, what does it do to our short-term exposure?”
The room shifts.
Papers shuffle.
The screen changes.
Rowan leans back in his chair beside me, ankle resting over his knee, looking infuriatingly relaxed.
I don’t know how he does that.
“Worst-case scenario,” I press, “if their overseas subsidiary tanks, how much do we bleed before Q4?”
Someone answers. I don’t like the number.
“Unacceptable,” I say flatly. “Renegotiate or walk.”
The meeting ends. Another begins.
File after file.
Data point after data point.
Rowan and I move from one building to another like soldiers marching across battlegrounds made of glass and steel.
By midday, I notice something.
Rowan keeps checking his phone.
Not casually.
Frequently.
He glances down, waits, then types something with a grin that makes him look about sixteen instead of a grown man with far too much money.
At first, I ignore it.
By the fourth time, I don’t.
“You expecting something?” I ask as we step into the elevator.
He looks up too quickly. “Hm?”
“You keep checking your phone.”
He smiles lazily. “Do I?”
“Yes.”
He shrugs. “Just… things.”
“That’s vague.”
“Life is vague.”
I stare at him.
He grins wider.
The elevator doors open.
We walk out.
But he keeps doing it.
Every meeting.
Every transition.
A buzz. A glance. A grin.
And I don’t know why it irritates me, but it does.
It feels like being outside of something.
Which is ridiculous.
I don’t require inclusion.
Still.
By mid-afternoon, we’re reviewing a stack of contracts in my office when Rowan leans back and says casually, “So. Is it your best birthday yet?”
I don’t look up from the document.
“My what?”
He stares at me.
“Your birthday.”
I pause.
Then it clicks.
Right.
That.
I blink once. “I hadn’t remembered it was my birthday until you just said it.”
Rowan bursts out laughing. “That’s tragic.”
“It’s Tuesday.”
“It’s your birthday.”
“And?”
He shakes his head. “You’re unbelievable.”
“I don’t do birthdays.”
“You don’t do joy,” he corrects.
I scoff. “I’m not sentimental.”
“That’s one word for it.”
“It’s just another day,” I say, signing the bottom of the contract and sliding it across the desk.
Rowan studies me for a second.
There’s something assessing in his gaze.
Then his phone buzzes again.
There it is.
That grin.
He types something quickly.
I narrow my eyes.
“Is there something I should know?”
“Nope.”
“You’re behaving like a teenager.”
“I’m thriving.”
I exhale sharply. “Focus.”
He chuckles but complies.
—
The next conference runs long.
It’s a board presentation.
Half the room is filled with men who enjoy the sound of their own voices.
I sit at the head of the table, fingers steepled, listening as a consultant clicks through slides.
“Our expansion strategy into the West African market hinges on…”
“It hinges on risk assessment,” I interrupt calmly. “You’re presenting ambition. I’m asking about vulnerability. What happens if regulatory frameworks shift?”
He falters slightly. “We’ve… considered that.”
“Have you quantified it?”
A beat of silence.
Rowan hides a smile beside me.
The consultant clears his throat. “We can revisit those numbers.”
“Yes,” I say coolly. “You will.”
The meeting continues.
Questions. Answers. Pressure.
By the time it ends, it’s nearly evening.
And I am nowhere near done.
My schedule still shows two more calls, a review session, and dinner with a potential investor.
Rowan checks his phone again under the table during the closing remarks.
I see the movement from the corner of my eye.
This time, he types slower.
More deliberately.
Then he pockets it and straightens like nothing happened.
Suspicion prickles.
“Everything alright?” I ask quietly as people begin filing out.
“Perfect,” he replies.
“You’re oddly cheerful.”
“Am I?”
“Yes.”
“Maybe I’m just enjoying your birthday energy.”
“I will fire you.”
He laughs.
—
We step into the hallway when his phone buzzes again.
He glances at it.
Types something.
Puts it away.
I’m about to demand clarity when my own phone vibrates.
Unknown interruption.
I glance down.
Ace.
A cold thread slides down my spine.
Ace does not call unless something is wrong.
He is not chatty.
He is not dramatic.
He is precise.
My chest tightens.
I hesitate half a second cause we’re mid-transition between meetings and that half second costs me.
The call ends.
My pulse spikes.
Then a message appears.
>Sir, Mrs. Blackwood has just collapsed.
The world stops.
Everything, the hallway noise, the footsteps, the distant hum of corporate life fades into static.
Collapsed.
Collapsed?!
My heart slams violently against my ribs.
“What?” Rowan says, noticing my expression.
I don’t answer.
I’m already moving.
Fast.
Too fast.
I don’t remember excusing myself properly. Something stiff and abrupt leaves my mouth …“Emergency. Reschedule.” , and then I’m striding down the corridor like a man possessed.
Collapsed.
Hannah.
Images assault me in flashes.
Her quiet smile at breakfast.
The way she said she was fine.
The way she’d seemed… distant.
Did she look pale?
Was she unsteady?
Why didn’t I push harder?
Why didn’t I stay?
The elevator takes too long.
I jab the button again.
My breathing is uneven.
Rowan catches up. “Timothy…”
“She collapsed,” I say flatly, staring at the closing doors.
His expression shifts instantly.
“What?”
“Ace just messaged.”
The elevator descends.
Too slow.
Too slow.
Collapsed.
The word echoes.
My mind spirals through worst-case scenarios.
Low blood sugar.
Exhaustion.
Anxiety.
Or worse…
No. No.
The doors open and I move before they fully part.
I don’t remember the walk to the car.
I don’t remember telling the driver to move.
I just know that I’m in the back seat and my hands are shaking.
Shaking.
I call Ace.
He answers immediately.
“Sir.”
“What happened?” My voice doesn’t sound like mine.
There’s a pause.
Just long enough to fracture something in my chest.
“Sir, Mrs. Blackwood….”
My grip tightens on the phone.
“Yes?”
And for the first time in years, I realize there is something in my life I cannot control.
And it terrifies me.