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Prologue
I am flat on my back, I think.
It’s hard to say, because I feel like I’m floating. Through space, through water, through something.
I’m the perfect temperature. Not hot, not cold.
Nothing bothers me here, not in this abyss. Worries, stress, reality. All are gone. Far from me, far from here.
I can’t feel.
I can’t think.
I don’t need to.
Still, even though it’s perfect here, and black and void, something isn’t right. I know that. It niggles at me, bothering me, like an itch. I scratch at it, at the thought, and I realize that it bothers me because I shouldn’t be here.
This is an old familiar place, a place I haven’t visited in a long time.
Oblivion.
How did I get here?
What the fuck happened?
I furrow my brow and try to think…
2
Chapter One
Pax
Pushing back from my desk, I stretch, arching my back and flexing my arms.
My leather shoes squeak when I move, and my toes are confined.
I fucking hate wearing suits.
Glancing at my watch, I realize the time.
“Damn it.” I grab the phone and punch the button for my assistant.
“Yes, Mr. Tate?”
“Would you call my car for me? I’m late.”
“Yes, sir.”
I don’t bother reminding her that she doesn’t need to call me sir. Sasha was my grandfather’s assistant before he retired, and he was old-school. Old habits die hard for her.
As I stride through my office doors, Sasha scrambles to her feet at her desk.
“Here’s your bag,” she thrusts it into my hands. “But what should I tell Mr. Andre? You had a meeting with him tonight to discuss a proposal.”
“Fuck,” I mutter. “I forgot. Can you reschedule for tomorrow? I’ve got somewhere important to be.”
“Of course. Have a good night, sir.”
“You, too.”
When I reach the street, the doorman opens the door for me, and my car is waiting, a long sleek, black Cadillac. It was also inherited from my grandfather. He believed that the CEO of Alexander Holdings should arrive and depart from work in a chauffeured car. He was, and still is, a big believer in creating your own reality.
If we portray a sense of success, we will be successful.
We already are, and we don’t need to put on a show to prove it, but I grudgingly agreed to his quirks when I took over for him two years ago. “I need to get to the Minnow, Rog,” I tell the driver. “I’m late.”
“Will do.” He takes off like a bullet, and I go about the impossible task of changing my clothes in the backseat of a moving car.
My legs are long, so folding and contorting myself to change clothes must look ridiculous. I see Roger’s lip twitch in the rearview mirror.
“Shut it,” I growl at him, shoving my arm into a black t-shirt sleeve. I lift my hips and wiggle into my favorite jeans, and thankfully, finally, replace my loafers with broken-in cowboy boots.
“Ahh,” I sigh, settling back into the seat. “That’s more like it.”
I’m comfortable in jeans and a tee. It’s where I belong. It’s much easier to swallow being driven around when you’re wearing comfortable clothes.
I grab my phone and text my wife.
Babe, I’ll be there in 5.
There are three bubbles.
Hurry up. I miss you.
I smile. I’m coming.
