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Not Adrian Riley.
Not my mother.
Certainly not Evelyn King.
To feel any guilt now would be counterproductive. With her termination pay, she could move to another city and live comfortably—and with her references, she will easily find another position. Adrian Riley could root through the rest of my employees’ pasts all he damn well pleases. Once the question of a merger is firmly decided, I will more than happily return the favor via one of his employees. One could say I spared Evelyn the pain and humiliation of being collateral damage to whatever revenge plot he has in store.
Besides, hurt feelings and ruined egos are the brutal cost of doing business. Evelyn knows that better than anyone.
“Goodnight, Mr. Bellamy,” James calls as he pulls up before my building, snapping me from the thought. If I’m not mistaken, his tone is crisper than usual. Blunt. “Sleep well.”
“Thank you.” I step out onto the curb without overthinking it and approach the building, but I find myself frowning as I enter the lobby.
That blasted scent must cling to me, because if anywhere in the world shouldn’t remind me of Evelyn King, it’s an exclusive high rise—regardless, I smell roses. Everywhere. The bloody fragrance even chases me into the restaurant on the ground floor, where I head straight to the bar. Two shots of whiskey don’t clear my senses any. In fact, I’m sure the liquor has caused me to hallucinate when my mobile rings, and I withdraw it from my pocket to discover who the caller is.
“You know that I prefer for you to contact me only during business hours,” I snap the second I answer.
A tinkling laugh greets me in reply, along with a distant murmur that resembles harmonic chanting. “Brother darling! How are you this fine evening?”
“Bloody hell, Stella!” I wince and hold the receiver from my ear. “Are you learning spiritual enlightenment wherever the hell you are or how to deafen a bloke?”
“Oh dear,” she replies with a dramatically exaggerated sigh.
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“You’re drinking,” she replies. “That’s the only time you’re this snappish. Usually, you’d at least berate me about getting the designs for the spring collection ready on time before launching into your typical whining. What’s wrong?”
“Nothing,” I insist while forming a fist that I brace against the counter. “I’ve just had the day from bloody hell, and then you’re calling me in the middle of the damn night, screaming like a blasted banshee, and I can’t even unwind over a glass of whiskey without being shamed for it.”
“Well, where is Evie? I called the office earlier and tried going through your skittish little secretary, but the poor thing sounded like she might burst into tears. I merely wanted to tell you that the designs will be delayed just a tad while I visit a goat monastery with this yogi named Renata I met at a hostel in Berlin—”
“I don’t give a damn if you’re visiting the pope of the bloody goats,” I snarl through gritted teeth, “you’ll get me those designs on time, Stella. And as for Evelyn…”
“If you have her personal mobile, Graeme darling, just hand it over. I’d much rather go through her.”
“She is no longer employed with Atelier Noir. Ann will handle my correspondence from now on.”
She laughs, and between her cackling and the blasted chanting, I feel like I’m in some surreal, alcohol-induced version of hell. “You don’t have a humorous bone in your body, Graeme, but I will admit you gave me a laugh. Now, seriously, please just get me in contact with her and—”
“I fired her, Stella.” The heat in my tone draws the eye of every blasted patron in the bar, and I gesture for the bartender to pour me another shot.
“Damn. Well, no wonder you sound so horrible. Dear lord, we’ll have to increase our liability insurance with you running around unsupervised. What on earth made you fire her? Or did she quit? I certainly wouldn’t blame her.”
“She was terminated,” I insist before snatching up a fresh drink the second it’s poured. “It was for the best, and I won’t be questioned about it.”
“You and I know our arrangement only works because we keep to our respective talents. I am the creative mind, and you are the surly Neanderthal that haunts the boardroom to keep our shareholders in line. But, while I admit you have some skill in the business realm, I suggest you pull your head out of your ass and offer Evie whatever she requires to come back. You need her—hell, we all do! What on earth do you think would happen to the company if you threw a tantrum and insulted some distribution agent without her there to smooth it over? Or if you dropped dead of starvation because you forgot that despite being a cold-blooded capitalist, you still require human food occasionally?”
“Stella?” I hold the receiver from my mouth. “I can barely hear you. You’re breaking up.”
“Graeme, don’t make me leave my quest for enlightenment all because of your blasted male ego! I swear I’ll go through Mum. She’s the only one you ever humor—”
I hang up and stand, leaving the bar, no less haunted by the memory of Evelyn King. I can still smell her. Her goddamn perfume forms a taunting trail all the way to my suite.
I make a mental note to track down the damn manufacturer and buy out the bloody company as I dig my key card from my pocket and swipe it through the reader affixed to my door. One step over the threshold, the aroma of roses intensifies, easily overpowering the stench of lemon-scented cleaner.
That isn’t the only detail out of place. I slam the door behind me and enter the kitchen to find the coffee maker on, with a mug already waiting on the counter beside it. Suspicious, I open the fridge and feel my frown deepen. Maria isn’t so obsessive as to color code the perishable items by date of expiration. Only one figure could be responsible for that level of organization.
Predictably, the damning trail of roses leads to my bedroom. I throw the door open to find my bed perfectly made with a sprig of lavender resting on the pillow—along with what appears to be my entire collection of Oxfords spread out over the floor. Amid the chaos, my ties form a carefully arranged rainbow with each color in its scientifically accurate place. I’d prefer either occurrence to the sight I settle on last, however—exactly three bottles of the most expensive wine I own sit on the floor alongside a woman who seems determined to sample them all.
