I pick up my phone, dialing immediately.
“Gina,” I nearly bark when my assistant picks up.
“Sir.”
“I want you to call my driver James.” I lean into the speaker. “Give him Harper Beaumont’s info. Her name, the names of her associates, family members. Her address.”
“Yes, sir.”
I stare out the window, at the tumult that’s likely waiting for me at the end of these eight weeks. “And tell him to stay close to her.”
6
DAMAGE CONTROL
VICTOR
By Wednesday evening, I'm sitting in the cigar lounge at Crimson & Chrome with one clear goal in mind—make it through the rest of the week without burning down the StreamEats offices out of sheer frustration.
It's been three days since I forced my accidental wife into a two-month arrangement she couldn't refuse. Three days since I had James start tailing her.
Three days since Patricia Franklin called another emergency board meeting for Monday morning.
Three days of walking past Harper's office and pretending I don't notice she's there.
The October evening is crisp and golden through the tall windows of the membership club—the one place, other than StreamEats offices, where I should feel powerful as hell, in control.
Too bad I feel neither of those things.
The cigar lounge of Manhattan’s gentlemen’s playground for the rich is all dark wood paneling and buttery leather, saturated with the scent of tobacco and expensive cologne. A haven designed to make wealthy men feel important while they drink expensive alcohol, it’s a place where we’re all essentially sitting around, pretending each of us is not one bad investment away from an ulcer.
My best buddy from Harvard, Christian Finn, is sprawled in the leather wingback chair across from me, looking annoyingly relaxed in a cashmere sweater that likely costs what I pay my assistant for a week, sipping an old fashioned.
My other best friend—and fellow former Harvard inmate—Roman Ellis is leaning against the mahogany bar, swirling a scotch, because Roman can't sit still for more than thirty seconds without his athlete brain staging a revolt.
"So," Christian says, swirling his drink, amber eyes mischievous. "You married your employee."
"Thank you for that summary," I say, deadpan. "Very helpful."
"At a video game chapel."
"Also noted."
"While wearing jerseys that said 'Player 1' and 'Player 2.'"
"Are you done?"
"Not even close." Christian grins. "The internet loves you now. There are fan accounts. Someone started a petition to make your wedding video into an NFT."
“How much can I pay you to stop talking?”
"And you're having her followed," Roman adds casually from the bar.
I glare at him. "How the hell do you know about that?"
"Your driver James is friends with my driver. They talk." Roman pushes off from the bar and drops into the chair beside Christian, his massive frame making the furniture look like dollhouse accessories. "So. How's that going?"
"It's going fine."
