Chapter 11: Jealousy and Misunderstanding
The polished marble floors of Hawkins Construction’s 47th floor reflected the sterile ceiling lights in long, cold stretches.Richard’s leather soles made no sound. He carried a slim black folder under his arm, his other hand tucked casually in his trouser pocket. The posture was easy, but his eyes tracked the hallway with a sailor’s vigilance.
Outside the main boardroom, a recessed alcove held a minimalist sofa and a sculpture of twisted steel.There, he saw her.
Harriet stood with Kenneth Baldwin.They were close, not intimately, but comfortably. Kenneth’s hand rested on the twisted steel, his body angled toward her. He wore a perfectly fitted navy suit, his smile a practiced, brilliant white.Richard slowed his approach, his gaze snagging on the scene. He drifted toward a large potted fig tree, its broad leaves offering a thin veil.
“...just think you should be cautious,” Kenneth was saying, his voice a smooth, reasonable baritone. “Your father and brother sharply disagree with the alliance. It’s not just business for them. It’s pride.”
Harriet’s arms were crossed. She wore a deep emerald sheath dress, her auburn hair a sharp contrast against it. “I know their arguments, Kenneth. I’ve heard them every day for weeks.” She let out a short breath. “But the Dawsons… Philip and Richard aren’t their grandfather. They’re not even the same as their father, Alexander. Maybe they’ve actually looked back. Tracked the root of all this pointless rivalry. Maybe this outreach is genuine.”
Kenneth’s smile softened into something knowing. “You’re giving them a lot of credit. Especially Richard.”
“He’s a good spokesperson for their company. I don’t see anything inherently malicious in him.”
“Seems you speak rather fondly of him.” Kenneth tilted his head, his eyes scanning her face. “I wonder why.”
It was a probe, gentle but deliberate. A faint pink tinged Harriet’s cheeks.Her gaze flickered away in irritation and landed directly on Richard, half-hidden by the foliage.
Their eyes locked.Her expression shifted—surprise, then a flicker of something like alarm. She took a small step forward.“Richard—”
“Mr. Dawson?” Timothy Hawkins’s secretary appeared at the boardroom door, her voice cutting through the quiet. “They’re ready for you.”
Richard held Harriet’s look for a second longer.His face gave nothing away. He offered a polite, remote nod to Kenneth, then turned and followed the secretary into the conference room.
The door shut with a definitive click.
The room was a glass box overlooking the city, the sky a flat gray sheet.Timothy Hawkins sat at the far end of a long, empty table. Two folders lay before him.“Richard,” Timothy said.He did not stand.
“Timothy.” Richard took the seat directly opposite, setting his own folder down. “Thank you for seeing me personally.”
“Your persistence warranted it.” Timothy’s hands rested on the table, fingers interlaced. His signet ring caught the light. “Let’s see what revisions you’ve brought this time.”
For twenty minutes, Richard walked through the points.Adjusted profit margins.Integrated sustainability benchmarks. A revised timeline for the harbor development project.His voice was clear, persuasive, devoid of any personal inflection.
Timothy listened, his only movement the rhythmic drumming of his index finger on the polished wood. When Richard finished, the drumming stopped.
“I’ll have my lawyers and directors review them,” Timothy said.
Richard leaned back, a wry smile touching his lips. “This has been the pattern for a week and a half now. I’ve been in and out of this building five times since last Friday.”
“You like it, though, don’t you?” Timothy’s eyes, the same cool green as his sister’s but without their light, narrowed.“The coming and going. You think I don’t know?”
Richard’s relaxed posture stiffened almost imperceptibly. “You don’t know what?”
A short, dry chuckle escaped Timothy.It held no humor. “Come on, Richard.Don’t play games in my boardroom. I know what you’re really after.” He paused, letting the accusation hang in the air-conditioned silence. “I’m telling you now, you have no chance of winning. Even if you win the contract, you will lose someone.”
The words were a direct strike. Richard felt them land in his gut, a cold, spreading weight. He saw the trap—the personal made business, the business made personal. He inhaled slowly, forcing the chill from his voice.“We’ll see about that, Mr. Hawkins.” His tone regained its confident, almost playful lilt. “And for the record, I’m not complaining about the back-and-forth. I actually enjoy every minute I spend here. Even if my presence seems to translate directly to your annoyance.”
He stood, buttoning his suit jacket with deliberate calm. He picked up his untouched folder.
“It’s still an honor to do business with you,” Richard continued, “even if your company has been actively trying to choke ours in the bay for six years. But I’m confident I’m the one who’s going to break that particular stigma.” He adjusted his lapel, a final, unnecessary gesture of composure. “My communication is always open. Have your team contact mine, and I’ll be back. Have a good day, Timothy.”
He turned and walked out, feeling Timothy’s gaze like pressure between his shoulder blades. The hallway was empty. He scanned the alcove. The twisted steel sculpture stood alone. Harriet was gone. Kenneth was gone. A tightness clamped around his ribs. He strode toward the elevator bank, his earlier ease vanished.
Okay, fine, he thought, stabbing the call button. Guess she’s fond of someone else now. Better not to disturb her.
The elevator arrived with a soft chime.
==========================
In her office, Harriet stared at a spreadsheet glowing on her monitor. The numbers blurred together. “Lalaine,” she called, not turning from the screen.
Her assistant appeared in the doorway, a tablet in hand. “Yes?”
“Is he gone?”
“Mr.Dawson? Yes. He left about ten minutes ago.”
Harriet swiveled her chair slowly to face Lalaine. She propped her elbow on the desk and slid her forehead into her hand, rolling her eyes toward the ceiling. “And he didn’t stop by. Didn’t ask how I was doing. Nothing.”
Lalaine observed her quietly. “He did just have a closed-door meeting with your brother.”
“That’s not an excuse.” Harriet dropped her hand, sighing.It was a sound of pure, frustrated exasperation.“He saw me. He saw Kenneth there. And then he just… walked into the boardroom.”
She knew what it meant. The sudden formality in his nod. The careful avoidance. It was jealousy, plain and stupid. The realization irritated her profoundly. She didn’t owe him any explanations. Yet his silent assumption, his quiet retreat, felt like a door closing, and she hated the hollow sound it made.
Lalaine, ever the vault, offered no platitudes.She simply waited.
“Forget it,” Harriet muttered, turning back to the blurring spreadsheet. “It’s nothing.”
But the tightness in her own chest, a mirror to the one in Richard’s as the elevator descended, told her it was very much something.
But the tightness in her own chest, a mirror to the one in Richard’s as the elevator descended, told her it was very much something. She picked up her phone, her thumb hovering over the screen. The cursor blinked in a new message thread. She typed four words, then deleted them. She typed them again. This time, she hit send.
How are you doing?
---
The Dawson Estate’s private bar was a pocket of shadow and amber light. Richard perched on a stool at the counter, a crystal tumbler clenched in his hand. His jacket was slung over the adjacent stool, his black dress shirt open at the throat. He stared at the polished mahogany but saw only the alcove: Harriet’s crossed arms, Kenneth’s proprietary lean, the easy space between them that spoke of long familiarity.
He drained the Scotch in one sharp swallow. The heat was a brief, punishing distraction. He poured another two fingers, the decanter clinking hard against the glass.
His phone, buried in his discarded jacket, vibrated against the wood. He extracted it slowly. The screen glowed in the dimness.
A push notification. Harriet Hawkins.
Her message was there. Just four words. They struck a clean, foolish hope directly behind his sternum. He stared until the screen went dark, then turned it face down on the counter. He didn’t reply. He couldn’t. Not when the image of Kenneth’s hand on that steel sculpture was so fresh, not when Timothy’s warning still rang in his ears. You will lose someone.
“Hey, bro. You look like you’ve seen a ghost.”
Jeremy slid onto the stool beside him, the scent of his expensive cologne cutting through the peat-smoke smell of the Scotch. He was in a deep blue velvet blazer, his golden hair charmingly disheveled. “What’s going on?”
Richard swirled the liquid in his glass. “Long day.”
“At Hawkins?” Jeremy asked, his tone light but his blue eyes observant.
Francis entered quietly, followed by Philip. Francis went behind the counter, moving with the familiar, precise comfort of someone in their own space. He retrieved two more tumblers without asking. Philip stood, his imposing frame leaning against the counter’s end, his sharp grey eyes taking in Richard’s posture, the empty glass, the ignored phone.
“How’s the negotiation?” Francis asked, pouring a measure of Scotch for Philip and Jeremy. The soft glug of the decanter was the only sound for a moment.
Richard let out a slow breath. “It’s a loop. ‘I’ll call you back.’ ‘We’ll meet next week.’ ‘My lawyers need to review.’” He made a faint, dismissive sound. “I’m determined to close it. I am. But Timothy is deliberately sanding down my patience. Every meeting is a new obstacle.”
Philip took his glass, giving a dry, humorless laugh. “See? The man inherited his father’s pride and his grandfather’s spite. It’s a family trait. Why are you wasting cycles on them? Other firms are lining up. Willing partners. Less history.”
“Easy for you to say,” Richard said, shaking his head. His voice was low but threaded with stubborn intensity. “I’m not the type who gives up when it gets hard. This isn’t just a harbor deal. It’s a chance to end the rivalry. To prove we can both be smarter than our fathers were.”
“I know it’s not only the rivalry you want to end,” Jeremy said, shooting him a sideways glance. He sipped his drink. “You want to end the twelve-year drought between you and Harriet, right? The one that started right after that summer regatta.”
Richard went perfectly still. The mention of her name was a physical touch. He focused on the caramel-colored vortex in his glass. “That girl,” he said, the word coming out more brittle than he intended. “She’s being circled by someone else.”
He looked at his brothers then, his expression stripped of its usual charm. “But I have a feeling it’s staged. That Kenneth Baldwin is a prop. Timothy’s way of keeping me in the ‘business only’ zone.”
From behind the counter, Francis polished a glass with a cloth, his hazel-green eyes thoughtful. “I don’t think he’s just a pawn. The Baldwins are their strongest allies. Their families have intermarried. And Kenneth and Harriet have been friends since childhood. They have history, too.” He set the glass down carefully. “I also have the feeling they’re arranging something more permanent. But I don’t want to speculate.”
“Ooh, jealous,” Jeremy teased, nudging Richard’s shoulder. “No wonder about the silence, and the sudden rush to drown yourself here. You’re not just negotiating a merger. You’re on a reconnaissance mission for a lost cause.”
Richard gave him a gloomy glare, a flash of real anger in his blue eyes. “Please. Drop it. I don’t want her to be the topic tonight.”
“Fine,” Jeremy said, raising his hands in surrender. The performative humor was back, a shield snapping into place. “Let’s just spend this night together. Talk about anything else. Football. The dismal stock forecast. The weird algae bloom in the bay.”
The conversation drifted, but a heavy silence clung to Richard. He heard their words about market volatility and zoning laws as a distant hum. The phone on the counter was a dark, silent weight. He saw the four words every time he blinked. He wondered if she was with Kenneth right now, explaining the sculpture, laughing at some private joke from their shared past, a past he had never been part of and now never would be.
He finished his second drink. He did not pour a third. The tightness in his chest had not eased. It had crystallized, cold and sharp. He had built a career on charming persistence, on weathering rejection until it yielded. This felt different. This felt like a door, not just being closed, but being walled up right in front of him, with him on the wrong side, forever.
This felt like a door, not just being closed, but being walled up right in front of him, with him on the wrong side, forever.
The silence in the bar thickened, filled only by the soft clink of Francis replacing the decanter’s stopper. He cleared his throat, the sound practical. “Since we’re on the topic of handling things,” he began, his eyes moving to Philip. “The finance division, along with our legal team, is finalizing the lawsuits against him. Elijah Morton. The forensic audit is complete.”
Jeremy swiveled on his stool, the kinetic energy returning. “And we found out Elijah and the four employees without filed leaves were about to fly to Singapore. Yesterday. Tickets purchased with the diverted funds.” He grinned, a sharp, satisfied thing. “Fortunately, with our communication with the FBI immigration team days ago, they were blocked from leaving. They’re all still here.”
Philip had been staring into his own glass, his mind clearly elsewhere—likely on the silent phone, on Mildred, on the thousand pressures he never named. He looked up slowly. The shift in his focus was absolute and chilling. He gave a single, slow nod. “Don’t do anything on Elijah Morton yet. I will handle him myself.”
His brothers looked at him. Richard, pulled from his own spiral, raised an eyebrow. “Handle him by yourself? That sounds terrifying.”
Jeremy smirked, leaning forward. “We never know what’s running on our eldest brother’s mind. Are you going to torture him? Dark room, single lightbulb?”
Philip scoffed, a short, dry exhalation. “You think I physically hurt people when they do something wrong?” His grey eyes were flat, like stone. “I’m not a gangster. I can do something worse than torture. Not a physical one. But on the legal and financial sides.” He took a deliberate sip. “I will hurt him where it hurts the most.”
Francis knew. He saw the blueprint in Philip’s calm. Choke him with lawsuits until he couldn’t breathe. Freeze every account, every asset. Bury him under a mountain of legal paper and public ruin. Make him watch his entire life dismantle, piece by piece. Francis simply nodded, then looked away.
The topic dissolved into quiet. The weight of the company, of Morton’s betrayal, of Philip’s quiet promise of ruin, settled over them. It was Jeremy, of course, who shattered it.
“Hey, Frank!” He nudged Francis’s arm with his elbow. “Switching to a way less scary subject. Are you going to attend the reunion at Pendleton Academy? It’s in a couple weekends.”
Francis smiled, a genuine softness touching his eyes. “Of course, I have to. And I want to. I want to catch up with my classmates. See how everyone turned out.”
“And?” Jeremy pressed, drawing the word out.
“And I want to see my former teachers again,” Francis responded, his tone deliberately even.
Richard, catching the thread, let a lazy grin spread. “Former teachers, or one particular teacher? What was her name… Rebecca Marlowe?”
Francis shook his head and let out a dry laugh, turning his gaze down to the counter before looking back. The warmth in his cheeks was slight but visible. “How about you, Richard? You graduated in 2009. Your class is having theirs, too.”
Richard waved a hand, the gesture dismissing an entire world. “Nah. I have a hectic schedule in the coming weeks. Lots of partnerships in smaller companies, luncheons, external conferences. The Hawkins deal alone is a full-time psychic drain.”
Philip nodded, his voice low. “I’m glad you’re exploring other firms apart from…” He didn’t finish. He didn’t need to. Apart from Hawkins. He knew Richard wanted to get out of that topic.
A brash, electronic pop song sliced through the moment. Jeremy fished his phone from his blazer, frowned at the screen, and answered. “Hello, Dorothy. What again?”
He listened, his expression flattening. “I thought we’re over… Why are you calling me again?” A pause. He rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “No, I’m not available. You could hang out with your girlfriends there. Even with other boys.”
His brothers stared. Richard mouthed other boys? Francis just blinked.
Jeremy sighed into the phone, a performance of exasperation. “Oh, come on. You enjoy their company as well, right?” He listened for another second.“Right. Don’t disturb me. I have my time with my brothers. Okay. Bye.”
He tapped the red button and set the phone down with a sharp click. He took a deep breath, then saw their united, confused expressions.
“‘Even with other boys?’” Francis asked, his voice laced with quiet disbelief. “Are you just giving your girlfriend away to someone else? Is that how a boyfriend should treat his girlfriend?”
Jeremy smirked, but it didn’t reach his eyes. “‘Girlfriend,’ my ass. We have no commitment at all. She’s even pushing me away toward other girls, so I’m just doing her the same favor. It’s a mutual understanding. No strings, no drama.”
Richard snatched an ice cube from the silver pail bucket and flicked it at him. It caught Jeremy square on the collarbone and slid under his shirt. “When are you going to take relationships seriously?” Richard grunted.
Jeremy jerked, brushing at the wet spot on his velvet sweater. “Gosh, Chad! Why? She’s not taking me seriously after all, and she’s no thrilling at all! It’s just fun.”
Philip reached over and snapped the back of Jeremy’s head, a quick, brotherly thump. “You idiot. Only after the hustle, don’t you? One day you’ll wake up and realize you’ve built nothing but a closet full of expensive shirts and regret.”
Jeremy scoffed, rubbing his head. “Now, you’re all torturing me! Guess I have to go now!” He slid off the stool with exaggerated indignation.
Francis moved with quiet efficiency, stepping into his path. “You said you were having time with your brothers, right? So stay here.”
“Nah, you’re all starting to be boring.” Jeremy jutted his chin out, playing the petulant child. “Boring, boring, boring!”
Richard laughed, a real, rich sound that cut the room’s tension. He walked over and clamped a hand on Jeremy’s shoulder. “Now, isn’t this boring?” With his other hand, he pinched Jeremy’s cheek hard, pulling it.
“Ow! I’m not a baby anymore!” Jeremy flinched, but he was laughing now, struggling half-heartedly.
“At thirty, you’re still our baby Jimmy!” Francis said, his voice adopting a melodic, teasing cadence. He joined in, ruffling Jeremy’s perfectly styled hair into a chaotic blond mess.
And just like that, the walled doors and financial ruin and lost loves were momentarily forgotten. The cavernous room held not CEOs and CFOs, but brothers. Richard trapped Jeremy in a headlock, knuckling his scalp. Philip watched, a faint, unguarded smile finally breaking the granite of his face as Jeremy yelped and swore and, beneath it all, beamed.