Ambushed by M.E. McAndrews
Chapter 5
Austin
my chin and nose as I finish my last of fifty reps on the bench press. I let out a heavy sigh, appreciating the healthy burn in my muscles. I hang the bar on its rack, sit up and wipe my face with a towel, running my fingers through my hair to push my bangs back from my eyes.
I was wired all night, and came to the office gym at four AM to clear my head. Today is going to be rough. I return the weights to their racks on the side wall and head for the showers.
The massaging hot water jet relaxes my muscles, but it does little to relieve the deeper tensions that have been building up inside me. I shut off the water and step out of the shower to grab a towel and drag it across my body to soak up the water. After fully drying every part of my body, I wrap the towel around my waist and amble to the locker room. I reach into my locker and remove my freshly pressed suit from the dry-cleaning bag.
As I dress, each movement is mechanical and robotic. I button my shirt, knot my tie, and slip on my shoes. I glance in the mirror, taking in the reflection of my dark and haunted eyes in contrast to the expensive suit and polished exterior. I grab my briefcase and head out the door, the weight of the world bearing down on me. Fortunately, the private gym is only a quick elevator ride away, since it is located on the ground floor of my office building.
It's still too early for most of my employees to be at work. The sun is only now rising, but a few have trickled in. Henry will be in soon.
“Good morning, Mr. Blackwater.”
I give my personal secretary a quick smile. Hanna always comes in early.
“Good morning.”
She’s a tall, statuesque woman with long dark hair that falls in waves down her shoulders. Her features are sharp and defined, with a nose that is slightly too large for her face. She has my morning coffee ready—double espresso straight up, no sugar, just a little milk to smooth the bitter edge.
“How was your evening?” she asks.
“Fine.” I lie. “Thanks for the coffee.” I don't have the patience for pleasantries, and she immediately understands, foregoing the minutia of superficial workplace conversations.
“Well, I've already been through the mail and your calendar for the day,” she tells me. She flips through the manila folders, ignoring the heavy silence in the empty room. “There are several important meetings this morning, one with the CFO, and a few others with various investors…” she pauses uncomfortably, her voice trailing off. I raise my brows.
“What is it?”
“Uh, your ex-wife left you a message about getting lunch while she's in town.”
“I'm busy today.”
“Understood. I’ve emailed you a copy of your schedule for today.” She nods, tucking the calendar under her arm as she strides away. She can sense my mood. I’m not sure how she does it, but more often than not, she seems to know exactly what to say without saying anything at all. When I hired her, I thought I was getting a pretty face and an enormous set of tits—the stereotypical secretary.
But she's turned out to be much more. She's smart, organized, and loyal. If I was younger and interested in dating again, I might be more inclined to have taken a chance with her, but now that is off the table. I can’t risk losing an exceptional employee for a primitive thrill in bed.
I amble into my office, but I don't sit down. Instead, I pace around the large room, drinking my espresso in two gulps before I sit at my desk, staring out into the distance, lost in thought.
The morning sun blazes through the window, casting a harsh light on the city below.
Last night's events are still fresh in my mind, the image of the Williams’s house surrounded by ambulances, their flashing lights illuminating the darkness like a beacon of despair, the wife’s screams piercing through the darkness and ringing in my ears.
I view out the window and watch the people below scurry across the streets, moving like little ants. I feel like they're closing in on me. I can see everything from here, but I feel like I'm not connected to anything anymore. I feel alone, trapped in my own isolated world.
I shake my head. What the fuck am I doing?
I sink deeper into my chair and close my eyes. I can see her face. The woman’s face from last night as she stood outside her front door, her eyes swollen with tears. Her shoulder-length brown hair matted and her face streaked with mascara.
For some reason, the image haunts me, and I didn't sleep at all last night.
I run my hands over my face, noticing the rough stubble of my unshaven jaw. I can't remember the last time I had a good night's sleep. The stress of my job, the constant demands and expectations, it's all taking its toll on me.
Have I gone too far? I'm usually a lot smarter than this. But I guess it doesn't matter how smart you are, you can't escape being human. Damn it.
I lean back in my chair and let out a sigh. This is my life, a never-ending cycle of work, stress, and exhaustion. But as I sit here, alone in my office, I know that no matter how tired I am, I'll never be able to escape it.
Right now, though, I need to focus on my business. Just as I'm about to pick up the phone and make a call, the door to my office swings open.
“Good morning, Henry,” I say, turning to face my assistant standing in the doorway. “What's the word?”
“Seth Williams was found dead in his home last night,” Henry replies, his tone professional and detached.
“I’m aware. He’s my neighbor.”
“I feel sort of bad,” Henry sighs, sliding into one of the arm chairs. I watch him for a moment. He knows what this means now, but he doesn’t want to come off calloused.
“Have you gotten ahold of the official report from the police?” I ask, running my thumb along the line of my jaw.
His brows furrow. “Was I supposed to? I doubt they finished the investigation. God, I can't imagine if I found my spouse just… dead in the kitchen.” He shudders at the thought.
“There are some things in life that you just can't prepare for.” We never have control over anything or anyone—we simply get up each day and take a chance at living in this unpredictable world, hoping for something better tomorrow. It doesn't always work out that way, though, does it?
“Is his wife okay?” he asks, avoiding the elephant in the room: The Williams’s property.
I let out a heavy sigh and run my hands through my hair, still damp from my post-workout shower. My eyes find his. “I don't know,” I say, my voice hard and cold. “I guess it depends on how you define okay.”
“What do you mean?”
“Personally, I think she'll be better off without him.” He watches me intently as I continue. “It's certainly not going to make things any easier for us. The wife is going to be in a state of shock, but we might be able to use that to our benefit.”
“You may be right,” Henry replies. “I can’t imagine anyone wanting to stay in the house where they found their husband lying dead in the kitchen.”
“I would think not, but we'll have to tread carefully. We should express our sympathy for her loss, but also make it clear we understand how difficult it must be for her to stay in that house. We can offer her a fresh start, a new beginning.”
“She has been consistently bull-headed about keeping the place. I'm not sure she'll be any more receptive to an offer now. She might continue to resist.”
I don't smile when I see Henry shift uncomfortably in his chair. I lean forward, my elbows pressing into the desk. “Let's hope she doesn't. If she won’t sell, we may have to figure out some other tactic to persuade her.”
Henry drops his gaze toward the floor in contemplation. “The rumor is that it was suicide,” he says.
“He was broke. His little writing business was going bankrupt, with no money and no place to go. And there are dozens of people who saw him continually arguing with his wife. It’s pretty obvious he was not in a very stable emotional state. But the question isn't whether he killed himself, it's how can we take advantage of the situation now that he’s out of the picture?”
Henry looks like he's about to say something, but he stops himself as I rise from the desk, walking toward the window. I take in the view of the tall skyscrapers looming in the distance, a constant reminder of the cutthroat competition in the real estate development business we’re in. Only now, instead of another land shark like myself, it’s just a poor weak widowed country-girl standing in my way.
We both sit in silence for a moment. He knows what I'm thinking before I even say it. “We need to act fast,” he says quietly. “If we don't take advantage of this situation now, someone else will.”
I nod, already thinking ahead. “Right. We need to make an offer to Mrs. Williams, give her something that will help her to forget about her husband.”
Henry listens carefully as I outline my plan.
“I want to make sure she has options, so she can move forward with her life without being crippled by her past. We'll offer to buy the house for more than market value. She won’t have any idea what the real value is to our development project, but we need to offer her enough so she won't have to worry about paying off debts or dealing with legal issues regarding ownership of the house following her husband’s death. We'll also offer to give her a generous additional sum to cover relocation expenses, and counseling if she needs it.”
Henry stays quiet during my entire explanation, and I see the wheels turning in his head as he processes everything I've said. Finally, he speaks up, his voice low but steady. “It sounds like you have everything planned out.”
“I always do.”
“There's a chance this blows up in our faces. You know that, right?”
“Olivia Williams isn't the same as her husband. She might be more reasonable.”
Henry crosses his arms over his chest as I turn to face him. “How much have you actually talked to this woman?”
“Enough.”
“Jesus Christ.” He rises, walking to the door.
“And Henry?” I continue.
He turns, looking back at me.
“After the funeral, sometime next week, send over a bouquet and sympathy card to Mrs. Williams, would you? Write something along the lines of ‘Our deepest condolences to you and your family during this difficult time.’ And sign it from ‘Austin and the Blackwater team’.”
I want it to be sincere, but also brief and to the point. “Make sure to sign my name and the company's name at the end.”
“Is there anything else you'd like me to do?”
“No, that's all for now. Just make sure they're delivered as soon as possible on the evening after the funeral,” I reply, my eyes fixed on the cityscape outside my window.
“Sure, I'll take care of it,” Henry responds before turning to leave the room.
As I watch him leave, I can't help but think of Olivia and the pain she must be going through. I should be feeling something, anything, but I only feel a sense of emptiness inside. I wonder if Olivia will be able to move on from Seth's death, or if she'll be forever haunted by it.