Alexander
I ended the call and tossed the phone onto my desk.
Madison Harper. Running a café in Connecticut.
Five years without a word. No calls, no emails, not even a damn text. Just gone, like she’d never existed except in my memories and the occasional dreams I refused to acknowledge.
“Harper’s Haven,” I muttered.
What kind of name was that for a café? Too cutesy. Too small–town. Too… Madison, actually. I could almost see her, standing behind a counter, serving coffee with that small smile she used to reserve for moments when she thought I wasn’t looking.
I shook my head, trying to clear the image. This was ridiculous. I was Alexander Knight, CEO of Knight Industries. I had an empire to run, deals to close, a fiancée to…
Ah, yes, Katherine. My eternally patient fiancée. Patient wasn’t exactly the right word. Distracted was more accurate. We both were. Our engagement had become a comfortable arrangement. She had access to the Knight name for her fashion line, and I had a suitable partner for corporate functions. Between her fashion empire and my company, we barely saw each other these days.
I sighed and reached for my phone, scrolling through the missed calls: four from Katherine and two from the Japan office.
Katherine and I had an understanding. We played the perfect couple for the cameras, attended each other’s events, and maintained the image of New York’s power couple. But the passion that once burned between us had long faded into something more convenient.
I scrolled to a recent photo of us at the Met Gala. We looked perfect together, her in a sleek Sinclair Luxe gown and me in a custom tuxedo. The press ate it up: “Knight Industries CEO and Fashion Maven Continue Power Couple Reign.”
What a joke.
“Mr. Knight,” Josephine’s voice came through the intercom, interrupting my thoughts. “The Tokyo office is on line one.”
I pressed the intercom button. “Tell them I’ll call back in twenty.”
“Yes, sir.”
I tossed the phone aside and turned to the Oakridge acquisition documents. Work had always been my refuge. Immerse myself in business, avoid everything else. A strategy that had served me well for years.
For five years, to be exact.
“Fuck.” I stood abruptly, pacing to the window. Madison Harper. Why had Anthony mentioned her now? I’d almost convinced myself I’d forgotten her.
1/5
Almost.
The phone rang again. I ignored it. Instead, I pulled up my calendar on the computer. My schedule was packed solid for the next three weeks: board meetings, investor calls, and a trip to Chicago.
But there was that gap next Wednesday. The meeting in Boston could be handled by video conference. I could drive to Connecticut afterward. Just to see.
Not to talk to her. Just to see the café. From a distance. Professional curiosity about a former employee’s new
venture.
“Stop it,” I said aloud, closing the calendar. “This is pathetic.”
But the thought persisted. Madison Harper. Five years. A café called Harper’s Haven.
I opened my desk drawer and pulled out an old business card I kept buried beneath contracts and pens. The one Madison had designed herself when she became project manager. I’d found it when cleaning out my desk a year after she left.
Madison Harper, Project Manager, Knight Industries.
I ran my thumb over the embossed lettering. She’d been so proud of these cards. Ordered the premium stock even though it cost extra.
“Is this okay, Mr. Knight?” she’d asked, showing me the design proof. “I didn’t want anything flashy, just professional.”
“It’s perfect,” I’d replied. “Just like your work.”
The blush that had colored her cheeks that day…
I shook my head and tossed the card back in the drawer. Five years, and I still remember the exact shade her cheeks turned when she was flustered.
What was wrong with me?
I buzzed Josephine. “Cancel my Boston trip next week. I’ll handle it remotely.”
“Yes, sir. Anything else?”
“Clear my schedule for Wednesday afternoon.”
“Ms. Sinclair’s assistant has been trying to schedule lunch-”
“Just block it off.”
“Yes, Mr. Knight.”
I leaned back in my chair, staring at the ceiling. This was stupid. What was I going to do, drive to Connecticut to peek at Madison through a café window like some stalker? Pathetic.
But I wasn’t going to be able to focus on anything else until I did.
I spent the rest of the afternoon buried in work, forcing Madison from my mind with stock prices and business strategies. By the time I left the office, it was past nine.
At home, I poured myself a whiskey and slouched onto the couch. The penthouse felt too quiet, too empty. It always had.
Well, not always. There had been those times when Madison stayed over. Her laughter had filled these rooms, making them feel like something more than just expensive square footage.
I tossed back the whiskey and poured another.
“You’re a real piece of work,” I muttered to myself. “Five years without even trying to find her.”
I’d told myself it was respecting her decision. She left, so I let her go. That’s what mature adults do.
But the truth was, I’d been afraid. Afraid of what I might find. Afraid she might tell me to my face that I meant nothing to her. That I’d been just a job, just an arrangement.
And what if she were married now? With a husband and kids and that perfect small–town life? What if I showed up at her café and saw her with some Connecticut asshole who made her happier than I ever could?
I drained the second whiskey.
“You’re a goddamn coward, Alexander Knight.” 1
The next morning, I woke with a purpose. Wednesday couldn’t come fast enough. I spent the weekend working from home, fielding calls from Katherine about some fashion event I had no intention of attending.
“You promised, Alexander,” she complained. “The investors expect to see us together.”
“Something came up.”
“Something always comes up when it’s my events.” Her voice had an edge to it. “But God forbid I miss one of your boring galas.”
“We can discuss this later,” I said, ending the call before she could argue.
Monday and Tuesday crawled by in a blur of meetings and calls. By Wednesday morning, I was on edge, snapping at everyone who crossed my path.
“Mr. Knight,” Josephine ventured cautiously around noon. “Your afternoon is clear as requested.”
“Thank you.”
“And Ms. Sinclair called again. She said it’s urgent.”
“It’s always urgent with Katherine,” I replied, gathering my things. “Tell her I’ll call her tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir. Have a good afternoon.”
I took the private elevator down to the garage where my Aston Martin waited. The drive to Connecticut would take about two hours. Two hours to figure out what the hell I was going to say if I actually worked up the courage to go inside the café.
“This is insane,” I told myself as I merged onto the highway. “She left without a word. Without explanation. She
doesn’t deserve your time.”
But I kept driving anyway.
Sara Lili is a daring romance writer who turns icy landscapes into scenes of fiery passion. She loves crafting hot love stories while embracing the chill of Iceland’s breathtaking cold.
