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Our public rivalry became legendary within weeks. During board meetings, we disagreed on everything from marketing strategies to personnel decisions. I challenged every proposal Rhys made, forcing him to defend his positions until the other executives grew uncomfortable with the tension.
“Miss Whitmore, perhaps we should table this discussion,” Marcus Chen suggested after a particularly heated exchange about the European expansion.
“No,” Rhys said firmly. “Sloane raises valid concerns. Let us address them now.”
The board members exchanged glances, unsure whether to intervene. What they did not see was the careful choreography beneath our arguments. Rhys had anticipated every point I raised. I had helped him craft every counterargument he made during our late-night strategy sessions.
Those sessions had evolved beyond simple meetings. Father’s study became our war room, its walls covered with documents and timelines as we worked to decode his elaborate test. He had hidden clues throughout the company’s operations, embedded in financial reports and the architectural blueprints of buildings we owned.
“This does not make sense,” I said one night, staring at a property deed for a warehouse in Rotterdam. “Why would Father personally oversee the purchase of industrial storage space? He delegated everything below fifty million.”
Rhys leaned over my shoulder to examine the document, close enough that I could smell his cologne, something subtle and woodsy. “Look at the date. Three months before he died. He was already sick by then.”
“So this was part of the test.” I pulled up the warehouse specifications on my laptop. “What is special about Rotterdam?”
“It is where your mother was born.”
I turned to look at him, surprised. “How did you know that?”
“Your father talked about her during our preparation sessions. He said she was the only person who ever challenged him intellectually.” Rhys’s expression softened. “He said you inherited her ability to see the truth beneath the surface.”
Something shifted in the air between us. These moments happened more frequently now, instances where the professional boundary we had established grew thin. I would catch him watching me with an expression that had nothing to do with business strategy. Or I would find myself noticing details about him that should not matter, like the way he rolled his shirtsleeves to his elbows when concentrating.
“We should visit Rotterdam,” I said, breaking the moment. “Whatever Father hid there might be our next clue.”
“I will arrange the flights.”
The warehouse was as unremarkable as the photographs suggested, filled with standard inventory. We spent hours searching through shipping manifests and records while the facility manager watched with obvious confusion.
“Maybe we are wrong,” Rhys said, frustrated. “Maybe this is just a warehouse.”
I sat on a stack of pallets, exhausted. “Father did not do anything without purpose. There has to be something.”
Rhys joined me, our shoulders touching. “Tell me about your mother.”
“She died when I was eight. Cancer, aggressive and fast.” The memories still hurt. “She was a brilliant mathematician. Father said he fell in love watching her solve a proof on a cocktail napkin.”
“That is where you get it from. The way your mind works.”
“Get what?”
“You see patterns nobody else notices. During meetings, you are always three steps ahead, calculating how decisions today will affect outcomes months from now.” He smiled. “It is intimidating and impressive in equal measure.”
Heat rose to my cheeks. “You are not so bad yourself. That move you made with the Chen negotiations last week was masterful.”
“I learned from watching you.”
Our eyes met and held. The warehouse around us faded. His hand moved to brush a strand of hair from my face, the gesture slow and deliberate, giving me time to pull away. I did not. His lips were soft against mine, the kiss gentle and questioning. I answered by deepening it, my hands finding their way to his shoulders. For a moment, we forgot about inheritances, tests, and dead fathers orchestrating our lives.
When we finally pulled apart, reality crashed back.
“That was…” Rhys started.
“A mistake,” I finished, standing quickly. “We cannot. This is tangled enough without…”
“Without admitting we are attracted to each other?”
“I need to focus on winning the company back.”
“And I am a distraction.”
“You are part of a business arrangement.” The hurt in his eyes was unmistakable.
“Right. Business.”
We flew back to New York in silence, the warmth between us replaced by a carefully maintained distance. Lying in bed that night, I could not stop replaying the kiss or the expression on Rhys’s face when I had dismissed him.