Page 46 of The Devil of Downtown

I can practically hear her rolling her eyes.

“So, how’s everything?” She asks. “Are you doing okay?”

I would be if it wasn’t for a certain someone who’s been under my skin since London. I glance through the glass, and she’s currently pounding her keyboard with the focus of a grand chess master.

“I haven’t hit the bottle or found a girlfriend called Mitzy, so I guess I’m hanging in there.”

She snorts. “Well, don’t wait until the party to check in. Let’s grab dinner when I’m in New York, just you, me, and Julian.”

“Done,” I say. “Look, I’ve got a call I need to join. Talk soon, kid.”

“Don’t call me—”

I end the call with a faint smirk. She’ll text to finish that sentence, anyway.

I suppress a groan and join the conference call, which seems to go on endlessly. I have just about enough time to inhale a sandwich before there’s a knock on my door and Sloane pops her head in, clutching her iPad.

“It’s time for the Bexley Progress meeting, Mr. Black.”

“Damn, is it that time already? Give me a second.”

I slip on my suit jacket and walk with her to the conference room. She’s the only person I know who can walk and write on her iPad at the same time. Then it occurs to me. The day we hit the trading floor before London, she was using a notepad. Not her iPad. She goes nowhere without the iPad.

Why the hell did she switch that day?

The thought lingers, but I push it aside. It’s insignificant. I’ve got bigger things to focus on—or at least I should.

“Stan Bexley’s secretary just sent me an email,” she says, breaking through my thoughts. “She wants to know if we can add another participant to the list of attendees for the upcoming meeting during their stay in New York.”

“Depends on who,” I say.

“Apparently, it’s Mr. Bexley’s younger son. She hasn’t confirmed his name yet.”

“His younger son,” I repeat, frowning. “Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten his name already?”

My head snaps to hers, a cold unease settling. Considering the amount of attention Dominic lavished on her, she can’t possibly have forgotten his name. For someone who could recite the names of all the board membersandtheir wives’ Pilates instructors, it’s not something she’d slip on.

Her cheeks color. The first real crack in her composure, which is just as well, I was beginning to think she isn’t human.

“Of course not. Long day,” she murmurs, picking up her pace toward the conference room.

I follow, eyes narrowing slightly.

It’s small, but it’s there.

The tiniest fracture in an otherwise flawless performance.

By the time I step into the conference room, the entire senior team is already in place. Julian’s there, leaned back in his chair, scrolling his phone, tie slightly askew. Maria’s seat is empty, predictably. She’ll blow in two minutes late, talking a hundred miles per hour into her phone. Kieran Foster, head of communications, is mid-story about himself again, hands wafting through the air as if the world’s hanging on every word. The others—finance, strategy, legal—sit with the silent patience of people who’ve learned how to outlast him.

The conversation dies the second I enter.

“Morning,” I say, taking my place at the head of the table. “Let’s make this quick.”

Maria flies through the door, muttering apologies, and I wait until she’s seated before I continue.

“We’ve made headway with the Bexley acquisition. The owner has given verbal approval pending board review, and Westminster’s response to the committee briefing wasfavorable. Maria, you’ll coordinate the release once the statement is cleared. No leaks until then.”

Maria nods briskly. “Understood.”