The CEO's Midnight Remedy novel Chapter 9

**Dust Writes New Stories by Rei Holt Wilder**

The dawn broke with an unwelcome clarity, dragging me from the depths of a restless sleep on the couch, leaving me with a stiff neck as a reminder of my poor choices. I stumbled into the shower, the scalding water cascading over me, washing away the remnants of last night’s makeup and, I hoped, a bit of the lingering embarrassment that clung to my skin like a second layer.

When I finally made my way to the Stellar Impressions office, I was already running behind schedule. As I walked in, I noticed Sophia seated at her desk, her eyebrows arching in disapproval at my tardiness, though she chose to remain silent. On my desk, a mountain of messages awaited my attention, but one email stood out amidst the clutter—Ryan Winters had reached out with an apology, expressing his regret over the events of the previous night and offering to introduce me to some of his genuine celebrity clients as a way to make amends.

Letting out a weary sigh, I contemplated the implications of accepting his olive branch. Ryan and I had shared a history that stretched back to our childhood, growing up as neighbors in the insulated world of the Upper East Side before I ventured out to carve my own path. His connections within the entertainment industry were undeniably valuable, particularly in our current predicament.

“Good news,” I announced to Sophia, forwarding her Ryan’s email. “Ryan’s feeling guilty enough to share some of his celebrity roster with us.”

“About time that party boy did something useful,” she responded, her eyes scanning the names in the email. “This could really help us with our cash flow problem.”

The mention of our financial woes sent a shiver of anxiety through me, prompting me to check our accounts once more. The figures glaring back at me were even more alarming than they had been the day before. Without a major client signing on in the next two weeks, we wouldn’t be able to meet payroll—meaning I wouldn’t be able to assist with her mother’s surgery costs as I had promised.

A heavy weight of responsibility settled on my shoulders, pressing down like a leaden blanket. My gaze fell to my phone as I wrestled with the idea of following up with Devon Kane regarding our proposal. The lines between our professional and personal lives had become hopelessly intertwined, and my pride screamed against the notion of reaching out after the way he had dismissed me so easily. Yet the practical side of me, the one that understood the stakes involved in supporting sixteen employees, recognized that his contract could be the lifeline Stellar Impressions desperately needed.

After several false starts and moments of hesitation, I finally crafted a succinct, professional message:

[Mr. Kane,

Despite our personal disagreement, I believe Stellar Impressions can deliver exceptional value for Kane Technologies. I have incorporated your feedback and would like to present our revised proposal at your convenience.

Regards,

Aria Harper]

With a deep breath, I hit send before I could second-guess myself, then turned my phone face-down on my desk as if to shield myself from the potential fallout. By the time I left to meet Marianne, there was still no response from Devon, and I tried to convince myself that I felt relieved rather than disappointed.

The Blake family townhouse loomed ahead of me, a stately brownstone that had been a cornerstone of their lineage for generations. As I approached the entrance, I spotted Ethan waiting on the steps, his demeanor a stark contrast to the polished image I was accustomed to. His eyes were bloodshot, his hair a disheveled mess, and he wore a wrinkled Oxford shirt that seemed to hang off him like a forgotten relic of better days.

She turned her gaze to Ethan, her expression shifting to one of stern authority. “Ethan, go get the car ready. You’re driving us to Greenwood.”

“Mom—” he began to protest.

“Now, Ethan,” she interjected, her tone gentle yet unwavering.

With one last pleading look cast in my direction, Ethan descended the steps toward the garage, leaving Marianne and me in a moment of silence.

“He’s truly sorry,” Marianne said quietly, her voice barely above a whisper once he was out of earshot. “Not that it excuses anything.”

I nodded, choosing silence over words, wary of how easily the conversation could spiral into a confrontation.

“How are you holding up?” she asked, her keen eyes studying my face. “You look tired.”