A SECOND CHANCE AT FOREVER Chapter 23: CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

KYLE

I stared at the screen before me as I typed relentlessly on the keyboard, the rhythmic tap-tap-tap echoing through the otherwise silent office. The sleek floor-to-ceiling windows behind me showcased the familiar New York skyline.

We’d gotten back from Vermont just yesterday. The last hours of the trip were a blur—Ashley glued to Violet’s side, the awkward tension between us like an invisible wall. When night fell, I’d taken the floor with a thin duvet while she claimed the bed. And the next morning,we were off to New York.

And now here I am, drowning in the mountain of work I’d left behind for a trip to Vermont. A trip I don’t regret—not for a second. Those fleeting moments with her were worth every missed email, every unchecked box.

A soft knock on the door pulled me from my thoughts. I didn’t need to guess who it was. Mark.

I’d told him to hold off on any work updates until I got back, cutting him off mid-sentence the last time we spoke. Vermont wasn’t for work. It was for Ashley. For… something I’m not even sure I can name.

“Come in,” I muttered, my eyes still glued to the screen.

He entered.

But today, something was off about him. His usual confident stride was weighed down by hesitation, his expression tighter than usual.

It won't take a genius to realize he was coming with a bad news.

“Spit it out,” I said, leaning back in my chair, my voice sharper than intended.

Ethan didn’t waste time. He dropped a thick file onto my desk with a quiet thud, his lips pressed into a thin line.

“It’s the Watson project.”

I didn’t need to open the file to know. The disappointment in his eyes was enough.

“They went with Harrow & Co.,” he continued, voice low like it would hurt less if he said it softly. “They claimed their proposal was more—” he paused, searching for the right word, “innovative.”

Bullshit.

My fingers curled into a fist, knuckles whitening. We’d poured months into the Watson project—late nights, endless meetings, perfecting every detail. I’d bet everything on securing that contract.

And we lost.

A tense silence stretched between us before I exhaled through gritted teeth, standing abruptly. My chair scraped against the floor, the harsh sound matching the frustration roaring in my chest.

“Get me the numbers,” I snapped. “I want to see where the hell we went wrong.”

Ethan gave a curt nod but hesitated at the door. “But…”

I shot him a look that made him swallow his words and leave.

I ran a hand through my hair, gripping the strands like I could pull the frustration out of my skull. It didn’t work. My chest felt tight, a mix of anger and disappointment clawing at me.

I grabbed the file, flipping it open with enough force to tear the first page. Graphs. Charts. Numbers swimming before my eyes. None of it mattered. None of it explained why.

“They claimed their proposal was more innovative.”

Innovative?

I slammed the file shut, the sound echoing off the walls. My fists found the desk next, the sharp sting grounding me for a brief second.It didn’t make sense. We’d been ahead—strategically, financially, creatively.

The Watson project was supposed to be ours. What the hell went wrong?

Then, like a slow, creeping shadow, the answer slithered into my mind.

Atlas.

The name hit me like ice water. Not the company—her.

Ashley.

Cutting her off had been necessary. I had to do it for the woman I truly love.

But deep down, I’d always known there’d be consequences. I just didn’t expect them to hit this hard, this fast.

Shit. I cursed under my breath, dragging a hand down my face.

This can’t be happening.

Not again.

I can’t be failing.

I slumped into my chair, the weight of everything crashing down on me like a tidal wave—no warning, no mercy. It wasn’t just the Watson project. It wasn’t just the missed opportunity or the numbers that didn’t add up. It was bigger than that.

It was the past clawing its way back into my head, uninvited but relentless, like it always did when things started to spiral. The last five years had been about one thing—proving to myself, to the world, that I wasn’t destined to repeat history. That I wasn’t destined to become him.

But now, I could feel it creeping in. That same sense of loss, of failure tightening around my chest like an invisible noose.

I can’t lose.

I can’t lose control.

I have to perfect this, no matter what.

Because the alternative? The alternative was becoming my father.

And I’d rather burn everything to the ground than let that happen.

My father was once a name people respected, feared even. Jonathan Blackwood. A man who could walk into any room, any board meeting, and command attention without even raising his voice. He built Blackwood Enterprises from scratch, fueled by ambition so fierce it felt like a living thing. And for a time, he was untouchable. The empire he created stretched wide, gleaming with success—real estate, tech investments, international contracts. We had everything. The penthouse overlooking Central Park, the vacation homes in the Hamptons, cars that cost more than some people’s houses.

But beneath all that shine, the foundation was rotting.

It started small—reckless investments disguised as bold moves. My father had a knack for seeing opportunities, but he also had a fatal flaw: he believed he couldn’t fail. That belief made him blind.

He poured millions into ventures that glittered on the surface but were hollow underneath. Tech startups with no real future, partnerships with companies drowning in quiet debt, luxury properties in unstable markets. Each deal was a gamble, but he treated them like certainties. He always called them growing.

But it wasn’t growth. It was inflation. A bubble waiting to burst.

And burst it did.

The market shifted—just enough to expose the cracks he’d been ignoring. One failed investment turned into two, then five. The debts he’d been juggling like a master illusionist started piling up, no longer hidden by the smoke and mirrors of temporary gains.

When the creditors came knocking, they didn’t knock politely.

I recently graduated from high school when everything collapsed. One day, we were Blackwoods—powerful, wealthy, untouchable. The next, we were just… people. People with debts, with lawyers, with foreclosure notices pinned to the door like scarlet letters.

I’ll never forget the day they came to take the house. Men in suits, their faces blank with professionalism, walking through our lives like it was just another item on their checklist. I stood at the top of the staircase, watching as they inventoried our furniture, our art, even the damn piano my mother used to play.

And my father? He just stood there.

Not fighting. Not negotiating. Just… defeated.

That’s when it hit me—the realization that failure doesn’t happen all at once. It’s not some dramatic, singular event. It’s a series of small cracks, ignored until the whole thing caves in.

After that, he was never the same.

The man who once filled every room with his presence shrank into someone I barely recognized. His pride had been his armor, and without it, he was nothing but hollow bones. He drank more. Slept less. Spent his days replaying every mistake like it was a movie only he could see.

I hated him for it.

And I swore I’d never be that man

But sitting here now, staring at the Watson file, I could feel the edges of that fear creeping in.

What if it’s starting?

What if this is the first crack?

No.

I straightened in my chair, fists clenched so tightly my knuckles went white.

No.

I sat up straighter, my jaw tightening.

I can’t lose.

I won’t.

I’d built everything from the ground up, brick by painstaking brick. This wasn’t some empire handed to me on a silver platter—I fought for every inch of it. And I wasn’t about to watch it slip through my fingers because of this.

My fingers drummed against the desk, faster and faster until the sound filled the room, drowning out the noise in my head.

I’d perfect this. No matter what it took.

My gaze drifted to my phone

But I shoved the thought aside before it could take root.

No. No, no—not Atlas.

I don’t need her.

I’ll fix this on my own.

Without her.

Without anyone.