Chapter 50: Chapter Fifty

LOGAN

The tiny black box in my dresser drawer has been the only thing on my mind for the past month and a half. I can’t bring myself to return it.

The extra ten grand in my bank account would be nice, but it’s not worth the pity I know I’ll see on the clerk’s face.

I don’t know what the clerk looks like, but I can visualize their expression perfectly. The same one everyone wore to Dad’s wake, the I-feel-sorry-for-you look.

I’d spend another ten grand to never be on the receiving end of it again.

The worst part is that I don’t even deserve pity. I did this to myself. I’m a fucking idiot. How could I ever have allowed myself to imagine a future with Rae?

She’s too wholesome and pure for this world, and I’m the goddamn opposite.

I broke her heart, fucked her, and left her behind, a sobbing mess tangled in her sheets. In that order. I’m a monster.

According to Court, who’s got a ~lot~ of opinions about the situation, Rae’s still a mess. She goes to work and locks herself in her room when she returns home. She won’t go out.

She won’t talk to anyone. She just works, cries, and sleeps.

I have to keep reminding myself that I did the right thing. She’s heartbroken now, but she’ll recover, and eventually, she’ll find a man who’s good for her. Her giggle will return.

That lucky bastard will coax out her radiant smile, the one that shows all her teeth and crinkles her eyes and emanates pure happiness.

I open my laptop. I only got home an hour ago, but work is the only thing that somewhat keeps my mind off every shitty thing that happened in the past two months. Even the gym isn’t doing it anymore.

The email at the top of my inbox is marked as important. It’s from Keith. I stare at the subject line in disbelief. ~SEC Investigation~. The one beneath it is from Beatrice. Its only content is in the subject: ~call me~.

This has to be a fucking joke.

I call Beatrice on my way to the office.

“Hi, Logan.”

“What’s going on?” I don’t have patience for pleasantries tonight.

Neither does Beatrice, it seems. “Are you coming in?”

“Yeah, I’m pulling into the parking garage now. Are you in the office?”

“Yep. Howard, Keith, and Taylor are here. Dylan’s on his way.”

“Alright. I’ll see you in a minute.”

The floor is empty except the group piled into Howard’s office. Taylor and Keith immediately cease talking when I walk in.

Howard massages his bushy eyebrows. “Logan,” he says gruffly.

“What’s going on?” ~And why am I the last to know~?

“Michael’s been arrested. Insider trading.”

I stare at Howard. He has to be joking. Michael’s a fucking idiot, but insider trading? How the fuck did he think he’d get away with that? And why would he want to? With bonuses, he’s cracking a couple million a year.

Keith speaks in a monotone. “Based on the initial results of the investigation, he’s been getting inside information from clients and using it to trade against their competition.

“The SEC is deliberating. They’re not sure if they’re just going to go after Michael or if they’re going to look into Quincy too. If that’s the case, we’re looking at a pretty hefty fine.”

“Fuck,” I grumble. “Taylor, have you sent out a notice to the board?”

She nods.

“Was anyone besides Michael involved in this?”

“Not that we know of,” Howard answers.

“Keith, isn’t your department supposed to stop this shit from happening?” I’m fuming. This never would have gone down if Serena were still here.

He actually fucking shrugs like he’s uncertain of his most basic responsibility. “It’s not like we can control what employees do in their free time.”

“One of my analysts is writing a statement now. Hopefully, we can get ahead of the story,” Taylor says.

As much as I hate her, Taylor is damn good at public relations. She might be the only reason Quincy survives this. “Thanks, Taylor.”

Dylan storms into the office, and we spend the rest of the night figuring out what the fuck we’re going to do.

At four in the morning, Taylor sends an email to the entire company with corporate-speak about how we condemn Michael’s actions and are cooperating fully with the SEC.

At five, half-dazed, I ask Howard to join me in my office. He groans but follows. That’s one of the only things I like about being CEO. People have to listen to me.

“What the fuck am I supposed to do, Howard?” I sigh.

“Your father would have called a company-wide meeting and had Keith—Serena, then—scare the living daylights out of everyone.” He attempts to flatten a stray eyebrow hair.

“Tell them we won’t support illegal activities, reiterate that we’re cooperating with the authorities, let them know that if they pull a stunt like Michael’s, they’re on their own.”

Forfeiting the battle against his unruly eyebrow, he folds his hands on the table. “How do ~you~ want to handle this?”

It should have been Howard. He should have been made CEO. He’s got thirty years’ worth of wisdom and business sense on me.

“Yeah, I’ll do that. We should probably do something to show the SEC that we don’t support insider trading.”

I shake my head, unable to believe that we have to prove to the U.S. government that we don’t condone white-collar crime. “Training or something.”

“That’s good. We’ll need to find a replacement for Michael. It would be good for optics if we got someone with a compliance background.”

I nod. Slowly, we piece together a plan that might actually dig us out of this hole. A couple of hours later, Keith and I are on stage, instructing our employees not to break the law.

I don’t leave the office until eleven at night. I’m so damn tired I accept a ride from Taylor, who napped in her office after the press briefing.

I have to be back at QV by six. I should go to bed now, take advantage of exhaustion before stress returns to keep me wired and awake, but I open up Google on my phone.

I type “culinary school Salt Lake City” into the search bar, and spend the next two hours reevaluating every single one of my life choices.

***

Sunday afternoon is the first time I’m home other than to sleep. As miserable as this week has been, the investigation has kept my mind off Rae.

Of course, that goes out the window the second my stomach starts rumbling when I walk past the kitchen.

Her sweet voice plays in my head. ~What makes you happy~? She hates cooking with a passion, but she actually went all in, helping me make a pizza.

The crust was lumpy as fuck, I remember with a smirk that promptly falls.

Whatever guy her family approves of won’t cook for her. I know it for a goddamn fact. They still believe women should stay at home to tend to the house and children while men should be breadwinners.

It really makes me think about what she texted me on Christmas Eve. ~You know me better~.

Maybe I do. Maybe Miles was wrong.

My fingers twitch for my phone.

~No, I can’t~. I can’t do that to her. I need to figure my shit out first.

The other night, in a complete daze, I signed up for marketing emails from half a dozen culinary schools. I think my reasoning was that if enough messages pop up, I’ll eventually give into temptation and apply.

I use my laptop to read the emails. My phone isn’t an option. I don’t have the self-restraint to keep myself from texting Rae. I miss her so fucking much.

~Focus, Logan~.

I click into an email with “RECIPE OF THE DAY” in its subject line. My stomach growls as I scroll down to the picture of cheesy zucchini bacon fritters.

I start setting the ingredients on the counter, ensuring I have everything before I start cooking. I freeze, a memory of Rae’s transfixed expression flashing through my mind.

She was impressed by the straightness of my ingredients line when we made pizza. It was the funniest, cutest fucking thing. She just stood there, staring at the flour and eggs and shit like it was the Mona Lisa.

I’ve always loved cooking. There’s something incredibly satisfying about watching all the ingredients come together into a new creation. It’s this tremendous feeling of accomplishment.

As much as I love to cook, I don’t know if I’d want to be a chef. I think I’d rather own a restaurant, one that has a new menu out every couple of weeks.

I’d need to learn more about culinary arts, but once I got the foundations down…

I do mental math as I chop and peel the vegetables, estimating startup costs, and then I drift into thoughts of the menu. I’d want to have a variety of cuisines. Curry would have to be a staple.

Pizza too, and maybe some pasta dishes I could keep fresh with seasonal vegetables. It would be the type of menu that has patrons torn between six different options.

When I let my mind wander, my dream starts to feel like an actual possibility.

I’d probably need to take some cooking classes, but I’ve got a degree in finance and a ton of experience working with startups, so I think I’d have the business part down.

Dad’s furious expression infiltrates my thoughts, and I nearly cut my finger open slicing the bacon into little pieces. I pause. Would he be so angry, though?

He started Quincy Ventures when he was my age. I’d still be following in his footsteps, opening my own business in my late twenties.

Sure, “restaurant owner” doesn’t have the same ring to it as “venture capital firm chief executive officer,” but I don’t want to live my life based on Dad’s hypothetical approval of the ~ring~ of my job title.

A stream of chimes interrupts my thoughts. I glare at my phone as it blows up with texts and emails, all about Michael and the investigation and new compliance procedures and shit I don’t want to deal with.

I turn it off and dive into the fritters.

I’m done with this shit.