Imperfect Storm

Chapter 1 My name is Meg.

Nineteen, college freshman, and then Aden Henderson happened. Blond curls, electric blue eyes, and a body that defied belief. It was a whirlwind romance. He was everything a girl could want—kind, attentive, and utterly smitten.
Fresh out of college, diploma in hand, and heart full of love, we hit the road. Flamingo pool floats and youthful exuberance were our only baggage. Three hours into our "forever," I burst into our hotel room, ready to celebrate. Instead, I found my boyfriend of six years in a compromising position with two cheerleaders. Heartbreak, swift and brutal, replaced the joy of graduation.
For months, I was a prisoner of my own despair. But resilience is a stubborn thing. I clawed my way out, trading heartbreak for ambition!
A year later, the news hit: Aden was gone. Not peacefully, not quietly. A violent end to a life once so vibrant! Initially, I was numb, convinced it wouldn't touch me. But the truth was a bitter pill – he was gone, and his absence was a chilling reminder of the world's brutality.

My mother's kitchen was a sanctuary. Her warmth, like the apple pie she was baking, was a constant in my chaotic world. A woman who could charm a saint and infuriate a devil, she was the heart of our family. Her optimism was a stark contrast to the darkness closing in on me.
Success had been my armor. A CEO at twenty-seven, I'd built a fortress around my vulnerability.

Fresh Start;

Monday arrived, and I was back at work, feeling, I don't know, fantastic? Lucy, my assistant, bustled in with the day's agenda. "Meeting with Owen Wrightson?" I scanned the schedule. "Since when do we schedule appointments on a whim, Lucy?"
"He's a potential goldmine, Ms. Scott," she apologized. "I didn't want to miss out."
I waved her away out of frustration. Glancing at my laptop finally booting up, I muttered, "Thirty minutes. Come on, Meg, focus."
The air in the boardroom felt heavy as I entered. Wrightson, a figure in black, stood by the window, his back to me, and his gaze fixed on the glittering ocean view. Time seemed to tick by slowly as he finally turned to face me.
"Mr. Wrightson," I greeted, extending my hand. "Thank you for coming. I'm Meg Scott."
"Ms. Scott," he replied.
A smile, practiced and professional, graced my lips as I slid the presentation onto the table, of which scattered across the floor. An awkward silence between us.
"Let me help," he offered, taking a step forward.
"No, I've got it," I recovered quickly, gathering the papers with forced composure. "Shall we begin?" I asked. Gracefully (I think.)
"Go ahead," he said.
I launched into my pitch, outlining the potential sales opportunities, but Wrightson cut me off mid-sentence.
"Ms. Scott," he began, his voice low and intense. "We'll continue this conversation later tonight. Your assistant will have the details."
He left the room as abruptly as he'd arrived, leaving me speechless.
"Tonight?" I mumbled, flipping through the agenda Lucy had placed on my desk earlier. No mention of an evening meeting. Frustration overwhelmed me as I slammed my office door shut.
Just then, the chime of a new email came through from Lucy. My heart pounded in my chest as I saw the subject line: "Details for Mr. Wrightson's Meeting – Tonight. "Lucy!" I called out, my voice sharp.
She appeared in the doorway, with her usual sunny demeanor. "Yes, Ms. Scott?"
"Did you give Mr. Wrightson my home address?"
"Absolutely not," she stammered.
"Then how...?" My voice trailed off. He was picking me up at seven. For a meeting that suddenly felt like something more sinister.

The Meeting;

I wrestled my hair into a vaguely sleek ponytail – Then, I threw on my little black dress, the one that makes me look like a cross between a Bond girl and a waitress at a fancy funeral for an 80 year old King. My red stilettos, echoing through the apartment like a herd of angry doves. Just as I was about to put on my second earring, the phone rang.
"Ms. Scott? This is Bruce, your designated chauffeur. We've, uh, grappled with rush hour and emerged victorious... mostly."
Peering out the window, I saw a monstrosity that could only be described as a disco ball on wheels. A limousine. Seriously?
"Mr. Wrightson, is this a joke? Did you lose a bet with a flamboyant drug dealer?"
A deep chuckle rumbled through the car. "Meg, Meg, Meg. Always so subtle. Like a glitter bomb wrapped in a neon pink bow."
"Glitter bomb? No, I'm something definitely a tad less seizure inducing, Mr. Wrightson."
"Darling, you in that dress is the opposite of subtle. You're a walking advertisement for danger and martinis. Exactly why I brought the limo."
I blinked. "Danger and martinis, huh? Sounds fun. But seriously, what's wrong with my outfit?"
"Everything," came the reply, with laughter. "Especially the way it makes you look absolutely stunning."
A grin stretched across my face. "Alright, alright. You win this round."