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If they could do it, so could I.
Vuk studied me, his eyes so pale they were nearly colorless. He didn’t move. He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.
I maintained his gaze, my heart pounding to an ominous rhythm.
Then, after an endless, agonizing silence, and without saying a single word, Vuk Markovic slid the contract toward him, picked up his pen, and signed on the dotted line.
* * *
I did it.
I fucking did it.
Vuk was officially my business partner, and with his stamp of approval, the rest of the pieces fell into place. That night, Sloane and I celebrated with food, wine, a so-bad-it-was-good rom-com, and lots of sex (obviously).
I also had the personal pleasure of delivering the news to Alex over the phone. He greeted the update with as much emotion as a block of granite, but he did sign off with something that made me smile.
“Delivered two weeks early,” he said. “You might survive the industry after all.”
It was the closest to a compliment one could expect from Alex Volkov.
But most importantly? The bank vault was mine.
Jules had fast-tracked my permits and licenses and was currently working with Alex’s lawyers on the commercial lease. My relationship with Sloane was developing into something more than I’d thought possible, and the financing from Davenport Capital was in the final stages of approval.
Opening a nightclub this big this fast required a ton of capital, and with my inheritance tied up and Vuk unwilling to pourtoomuch cash into an untested venture, I was relying on the Davenport money to cover the shortfall. I was confident it would go through, especially with Vuk on board.
Overall, life was good. Really good.
But as someone wise once said, all good things came to an end, and this particular streak of luck came to a sudden, crashing halt the following Monday.
LUCA:
Did you see this?
His next text included a link to a Perry Wilson blog post.
I grabbed my coffee from my usual spot and tucked a twenty-dollar bill in the tip jar before I clicked on the link. Perry was always talking shit, and people knew better than to take half the stuff he said too seriously.
What was it this time? Did I have an orgy with models in the middle of Fifth Avenue? Get into a brawl with someone at a club? By now, it was semipublic knowledge that Sloane and I were seeing each other. It’d elicited some disapproving whispers and controversy among the more conservative crowd, but people weren’t as scandalized as she and Perry had originally expected.
One, there wasn’t concrete proof. Two, it was New York— more salacious things happened every day. And three, she was too damn good at her job for her clients to drop her over such a small “scandal.”
However, my disinterest exploded into shock when I saw Perry’s blog post. It was about me and Sloane, but it wasn’t what I’d expected.
Kensingtons not so estranged?? What’s going on with New York’s most famously dysfunctional family?
There was barely any text, but there were photos.Dozensof them.
Sloane and I entering the simulation center in Queens. Us leaving with Rhea and Pen. Me hugging Pen goodbye. So on and so forth, our perfect, secret day captured in high-definition detail for the world to see.
I scrolled to the end, the roar of my pulse drowning out the car horns and sounds of traffic from the street.
If there were photos of us at the hotel, and he’d published nudes of Sloane…
Rage prowled beneath a slick of panic, followed by a tingle of relief when the post ended without mentioning our night at the hotel. I didn’t know how long Perry’s photographer had followed us, but obviously, it hadn’t extended to the rest of that week.
However, my relief soon hardened into ugly, gnawing guilt.
