Page 1 of Scarred by You

LEANING BACK IN my leather chair, I bring the heel of one foot over my opposite leg and turn to face the city. Despite my office being on the tenth floor of a high-rise, the view leaves a lot to be desired. Early morning mist struggles to rise through the multitude of London’s buildings, battling the mid-November sun.

I hold the ring up to the light and stare at it. Again. It’s a grotesque thing. A four-carat princess-cut diamond that’s too large for the delicate platinum band. I don’t like it. Never did. But Connie liked it, and she was as damn near perfect as a woman could be, so she got it. Connie was — is — the complete package for most men. Well-mannered, well-bred, always immaculate. She's five-ten with the figure of an A-lister and long golden-blonde hair to match.

Now she’s gone, and I’m stuck with a fucking ugly ring and no fiancée to wear it. No wife.

“Earth to Clark Layton.”

Teddy. My partner in crime from Cambridge and my Chief Finance Officer.

I lean my head back against the chair and rotate to face him, dropping the ring into the top drawer of my desk. “Ever heard of knocking?”

“Why change the habit of a lifetime?” he says, striding across the open space of my office with a slight edge to his walk, like he wants to be a bad boy. He’s not. “You look like shit, by the way.”

Usually I would laugh. Teddy and I always banter together, but today I’m just not in the mood. “The weekend I had will do that,” I tell him.

Teddy shakes his head. He unfastens the one closed button of his blazer and sits down in a chair opposite mine. “No kidding.”

“Ted, do me a favour and don’t talk about it.”

He holds up two large brown palms. “You bet. I actually came to give you this.”

He slides a document across my desk. The annual accounts of Subsea Petroleum, one of Layton Oil’s main competitors. One of my main competitors. My body stiffens at the sight of SP’s CEO on the high-gloss cover. My fingers rest on top of the accounts, frozen into a claw.

Dayna Cross.

Her brown eyes look back at me from under her blue hard hat. Her pink skin glows under the photographer’s light. I can almost smell her perfume, mixed with the fresh, hot smell of sex, as I remember how that skin feels against mine.

Dayna fucking Cross.

She’s become my most proximate competitor since I replaced my father as CEO eighteen months ago. Layton Oil is much bigger than SP, and SP has been through a rough few years, but Dayna is turning the company around. We’re both headquartered here in London. She’s the bane of my goddamned screwed-up life for more than one reason.

“I read them when they were published on Friday,” I tell Teddy, pushing the accounts back towards him.

He nods lazily and runs a finger along his slightly plump chin. I should probably be a good friend and start dragging him to the gym with me, at least for his wife’s sake. Teddy and Yvette have been together for years, and I consider her a close friend, too.

“Aha.”

With a heavy sigh, I sit back in my seat, my elbows on the armrests, the tips of my fingers forming a steeple in front of my chest. “What exactly is ‘aha’ supposed to mean, Ted?”

“Just that it’s a coincidence.”

I’m rattled and that pisses me off. I hide my irritation from Teddy, but I can feel myself losing control. I clench my fists, digging my nails into my palms. “If you’ve got something to say…”

“I’m merely pointing out that you read Dayna’s annual accounts on Friday, and on Saturday your marriage was off.”

I stand abruptly and move to the window, my hands braced on my hips to stop myself doing what I really want to do — lashing out. “I read a competitor’s accounts. Neither the accounts nor Dayna Cross had anything to do with what happened on Saturday.” The words grate through my teeth and sound even shittier than I intend them to be.

“Alright, Clark, alright. I’m just messing with you. It’s too soon; I get it.”

It’s not Teddy’s fault I’m pissed off, but I don’t have an apology in me right now. The intercom on my desk vibrates and flashes amber: my PA’s line. I hit the receiver and his voice plays into the room.

“Mr Layton, I have Jay Hamilton on the line. Should I connect you?”

Christ, the last thing I need.

“Not now, Marcus. Tell him I’m in a meeting.”

“Should I tell him you’ll call back?”

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