A Breath Of Fresh Air = Bankruptcy

[Tyler’s POV]

For three years, entering this front door had felt like stepping into a tomb—a quiet prison where Sarah would be waiting with that look of expectation on her face.

"How was your day, Darling?" she would ask, her voice a soft, dull hum that made my skin crawl.

Now, the air smelled like expensive Oud and Lucy’s French perfume. It smelled like life.

I poured myself a glass of aged scotch, the amber liquid catching the morning sun. I felt ten years younger. It was as if a heavy, rusted anchor had finally been cut from my neck, allowing me to float. No more walking on eggshells around Sarah’s fragile "feelings."

 No more lying in bed next to a log of wood that stared at the ceiling as if sex were a chore she was barely enduring.

I thought back to the other night. Lucy was fire and spice. She didn't just lie there like Sarah did, Lucy made me feel like a man who actually had blood in his veins. The sex had been so explosive, so transformative, that I’d already scheduled an impromptu vacation for her in Zanzibar. She deserved the world for saving me from the mediocrity of my marriage.

"Tyler? Is that you, baby?"

I turned, a smile tugging at my lips. Lucy was leaning against the doorframe of our master suite, wearing nothing but one of my white dress shirts. The hem hit her mid-thigh, her legs long and oiled.

"You’re home early," she purred, crossing the room with a rhythmic sway of her hips that Sarah could never have emulated.

"I couldn't stay at the office," I admitted, reaching out to pull her into my space.

I let my hand slide down to her stomach, pressing my palm against the silk of the shirt. "When is the next scan? I’m coming with you. I want to see our child."

For a split second, Lucy’s rhythm faltered. She stiffened under my hand, her eyes darting toward the window before she forced a laugh that sounded too high.

 "Oh, baby, don't worry yourself with all that medical boredom. You have that massive new wine distribution deal with the Vane Group to close, remember? Focus on the money. I’ve got the baby handled."

I raised an eyebrow. "I can make time for my child, Lucy."

 "I know, I know! But I have so much to do before Zanzibar," she said, neatly stepping out of my arms and moving toward the kitchen island. "I need to do some serious shopping. I can't go to the beach in old designs."

I chuckled, leaning back against the counter. "Lucy, you’ve already converted two of the guest rooms into walk-in closets. You have enough clothes to outfit a small country."

She pouted. "The baby wants me in something new, Tyler. He has very high standards. Besides, I’ll be updating my socials every hour. God forbid my followers see me in outdated designs. People will think the Rider Group is struggling."

"We are anything but struggling," I muttered.

The doorbell chimed, a sharp, aggressive sound.

 "Are we expecting someone?" Lucy asked, smoothing the shirt over her hips.

"The maid will get it," I said, but before the staff could even announce the guest, the heavy, rhythmic footsteps of my father, Byron Rider, echoed in the foyer. He didn't do home visits. To see him here, in his tailored charcoal suit, was rare. You have to book appointments.

 "Tyler!" he boomed, his eyes immediately bypassing me to land on Lucy. "And there she is. The woman of the hour."

My father walked over and did something I had never seen him do to Sarah. He smiled, and took Lucy’s hands.

"I just flew in. I couldn't go to the office without stopping to see my favorite daughter-in-law and the future of the Rider legacy. How is my grandchild?"

"Growing every day," Lucy replied easily, patting her flat stomach.

"Good. Lucy, dear, go get dressed. I need a quick word with my son. Men's business. "

Lucy blew me a kiss and disappeared upstairs. As soon as her heels stopped clicking on the hardwood, the warmth left my father’s face. He walked to the bar and poured himself a double scotch without asking.

"Tell me," he said, his voice dropping into that cold tone that had terrified me as a child. "Did you do a thorough clean-up with the other one?"

"Sarah?" I felt a surge of defensive pride. "She’s gone, Dad. I had her sign the papers. She left with a single suitcase and not a dime of Riders money. She’s vanished into the gutter where she belongs."

"Good. She was a stain on our image," he spat, swirling his drink. "Too quiet. Her skin too dark. She looked like the help, not the wife of a CEO. I don't want some disgruntled ex-wife crawling back out of the woodwork to stress Lucy or cause a scandal during the pregnancy. You’re sure she has no way to fight back?"

"She has nothing, Dad. No family, no friends, no money. She’s probably crying in some cheap motel as we speak."

Now, tell me about the Vane Group. If we secure Julian Vane’s partnership, we’re looking at a global monopoly on the premium market. Is the contract ready?"

"I’m meeting Julian at the office in an hour to sign," I said, my chest swelling with pride. "This deal is the crown jewel, Dad. It’s what I’ve been working for."

---------------

An hour later, I was in my corner office, the mahogany table set with our finest vintage bottles of wine. Julian Vane, the kingmaker of the international wine trade, sat across from me. He hadn't touched his glass.

"Tyler," Julian said, his voice dangerously low. "I’ve spent the morning reviewing the Rider Group’s internal audit. And I’ve tasted the 'Signature Blend' you sent over to my tasters last week."

"And?" I smiled, leaning back, waiting for the praise. "It’s a bold direction for us. More modern than anything in the market.”

Julian stood up, slowly buttoning his coat. "It’s trash, Tyler."

The smile froze on my face. "Excuse me?"

"It’s over-processed, it’s acidic, and frankly, it tastes like a cheap imitation of luxury. It lacks soul. It lacks... character."

Julian leaned over the desk, his eyes boring into mine. “My team also did a research —your overhead is spiraling, your personal spending is erratic, and your product has hit a wall. To be blunt, Tyler... your company is bleeding out."

"Julian, we can adjust the blend—"

"It's not just the wine, Rider. It's the reputation. Rumors of your messy divorce and the way you’ve handled your personal affairs are hitting the circles. It looks cheap. You look cheap."

He paused at the door, his eyes cold. "The Vane Group is moving in a different direction. We’ve heard of a private estate outside the city that is about to disrupt the market. We’ll be putting our money there."

You can't do this," I hissed, my heart starting to hammer a frantic rhythm against my ribs. "We have an agreement."

"We had a conversation. There is no signature," Julian said, and slammed the door.

I sat there, frozen. If the Vane deal was dead, I was dead. I had gambled everything on this partnership. The loans for Lucy’s jewelry, the Zanzibar trip, the penthouse upgrades—it was all tied to the projected revenue from Vane.

My assistant buzzed through the intercom, her voice trembling. "Mr. Rider? The accounting department just sent over a notice. The quarterly projections are in the red. If we don't secure a capital partner by next month... we're looking at a total loss of all assets."

I stared at the empty glass in front of me. I was about to be a laughingstock in New York.

I swept the crystal glass off the desk, watching it shatter against the wall.

  "Find me a partner!" I roared at the intercom. "I don't care who it is! Find me someone with the money to save this company!"