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GABRIEL
Present
“Gabe, old man, how are you?”
I lean back in my chair, chuckling. “I’m not as old as you, Donovan. What’s on your mind?”
My priority is maintaining a low profile. Privacy comes at a price, and with that price is usually a decent amount of luxury.
Like this place I purchased for the moment. Spacious, the two thousand square feet are a lot for a single man in a house. But the almost suburban three-bedroom ranch house is very comforting, with dark leather chairs and a modern dining room and kitchen.
The second bedroom was converted into a temporary office. It’s low-profile from the outside, however it’s still furnished to my liking. It’s the quality Donovan expects.
Outside the house, Joshua’s team is still active, but low-profile and at a distance. There’s far more security at her place and at the club.
In the back of my mind, I’m always thinking about Kiersten and whether everything will be alright now that I’m back. Legally, I’m protected. The case is closed, and there isn’t an ounce of evidence. The nervousness of knowing someone else is aware that I’m back and knows all about Kiersten never leaves me.
But business never stops either, and as Joshua suggested, I need to play the part. Whoever is watching will slip up, and we will find them and deal with them. Until then, the show goes on. And Kiersten is none the wiser.
Donovan and I have been business partners for nearly thirty years. As the scion of an old, noble family, Donovan learned a hard truth about the modern aristocracy in the UK and Europe when he grew up.
Titles don’t mean shit compared to what they used to.
So while Donovan’s hereditary title might have opened some doors for him at Rugby and Cambridge, it didn’t do a damn thing compared to what really gets the influence in the modern world—money.
For that, he turned to me. In a lot of ways, it’s been an ideal situation. As a noble, he’s able to be the public face of our partnership, soaking up the tabloid adulation and massaging the public perception of our moves. And he’s good at it. Affable, he can go from appearing like a sharp businessman to your folksy uncle next door with just a change of clothes and a bit of hair gel. Either way, his accent is always endearing, and he has a charisma that can’t be taught.
Meanwhile, I work in his shadow, turning millions to billions with deals and trades and partnerships where I am never a face or a name. I have my privacy, he has his praise and fame, and we both earn wealth beyond imagine.
“Well now, I received another message from our friends,”he says, and my expression tightens ever so slightly. I resist rollingmy eyes and merely gesture for him to continue. I understand the need to keep secrets. I have my own, after all. But Donovan’s not important enough to worry about the NSA or MI5 or whoever may attempt to tap into our already encrypted video chats. Yet he still insists on not naming names sometimes and speaking in code. “They’re still very interested in the Wentwood Towers.”
As I lean back, the leather wingback chair groans. He waits for my response as I take in his comment.
The Wentwood Towers was one of my first business arrangements when I arrived in the UK. It’s an older skyrise. Nineteen years ago, it was one of those addresses that had prestige, that carried with it an unspoken endorsement of you or your business.
If you said that your flat or your business was in the Wentwood Towers, it meant you weresomeone.
But times have started to change. Not that the Wentwood hasn’t been updated. It has. It’s still prime real estate. But with the rapid pace of new building and renovation occurring in London, the Wentwood’s value has peaked. Honestly, I was only holding onto it because the mortgage was already paid off and it’s nearly all profit at this point. And it lends Donovan some of that traditionalist aura that all British nobles are supposed to have. You can be modern, but nottoomodern.
“Are they ready to talk?” I ask.
“I think so,” he responds.
“If the numbers are right, then let’s talk. If not, then we tell them to bring back some numbers that make sense.”
“That’s what you’re supposed to do, remember? They want to meet in person,”Donovan says. “I guess what I’m saying is, when are you going to get your arse back over there?”
It’s a good question. The truth is, I’ve avoided this entire region of the United States for twenty years and have only beenback in the States on limited occasions for a reason. I don’t need any of my former associates recognizing me. I only do in-person meets when necessary. So when business has pulled me back here, it’s always been to the other side of the country.
But now... “Donovan, you know I have business here as well, and I’m not sure a real estate brokerage requires me to attend.”
“Of course,” Donovan says, “but you have billions of pound sterling and euros of business back in the UK as well. Things that I cannot handle alone and need your presence for.”
I take a deep breath, nodding. Donovan’s right, of course. And when I came back here to see Kiersten, I left without knowing what the future held. So I didn’t burn any bridges back in the UK, and they’re clearly expecting me. The mere thought of Kiersten brings back a nervousness that’s unsettling. Some businesses are far more pressing than selling a property.
“Send me the details and I’ll look it over,” I tell Donovan. “I’ve got something to handle right now. If they’re serious and require an in-person with me, they’ll wait.”
“Is there anything I can help with? Or anything I should be concerned about?” he asks, and my jaw ticks, but I keep a smile firmly in place.
