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“I’ve been great,” he replies, still with that aggressively charming look in his eyes. “And I’ve heard great things about you, too. I was so proud of you when I read you’d opened your first physical location.”
Proud? Why should he be proud? He had nothing to do with my success. He almost stole my business right from under me first, then tried to sink it when he couldn’t get his grubby paws on it all while successfully derailing my mental health after our breakup. That about sums up his contribution: plunging me into the darkest six months of my life where I almost lost everything, including the willingness to fight. I survived only because of my wonderful family, staff, friends, and online community who never ceased to support me even through the dark ages, the people who stayed loyal no matter what. The only thing Justin can take credit for is forcing me to toughen up.
Oblivious to my mental berating of his character, the slimebag continues with his tirade, “I should’ve sent flowers. And a note. I never got around to it. And I know it’s terrible manners. But I was so busy.”
Considering we haven’t talked in precisely three years, I consider his ignoring my successes a favor.
“Thanks,” I manage. I can’t trust myself to say more without some of the rancor I still have for him filtering through. And I’m going for a total absence of feelings here.
But apparently, I’m not doing an excellent job of it, because the next thing I know, Justin creeps closer and puts both his hands on my shoulders.
I cringe, looking around myself in a panic, searching for a way to get his hands off me without causing a scene.
“Listen,” he starts, all intense, and I do my best not to recoil. “I know I messed up. But—”
“If it isn’t Justin Trémaux.” We’re interrupted by a towering, domineering presence stepping into our small two-person circle. “I’ve been dying to meet you since learning you were attending the conference.” MGM sends a loaded stare my way.
Does he know Justin and I used to date?
How? Has he gone total stalker on me?
A shiver of fear slithers down my spine. Did Gabriel connect the dots that Justin is the one who told me about his father secretly financing Power Training’s A round?
Is that why he’s here? Or is he coming to my rescue?
And why am I so desperately hoping it’s the latter? I shouldn’t want Gabriel to come save me. But, gosh, if it doesn’t feel good not to have to do all the fighting by myself.
Still, my head spins with exhaustion. This is all too draining. I’m no longer sure of anything. The only thing I know is that if trouble comes, wait for the other. The last thing I need if I want to maintain a shred of professionalism is for two upper-class peacocks to preen their plumage at me. But buckle up, folks, it looks like we’re about to witness a cockfight.
25
GABRIEL
Twenty minutes earlier…
After Blake stalks away from me, I quietly follow the evening from my corner at the bar. No one will bother me here and all I have to do to keep the drinks coming is raise two fingers at the barman. Suits me just fine.
From my perch on a stool, I have a perfect view of the only two people I’m interested in tonight: Justin Trémaux and Blake Avery.
Blake seems to be having a quiet meltdown by herself near the fireplace. I hope she, like me, is wishing she’d be less headstrong. That she’s regretting being so stubborn in denying our attraction and the fact that we could presently be in either mine or her cabin having fun under the sheets instead of stranded in this sea of dullness.
Justin is a whole different story. The dude irks me just by looking at him. He’s making brilliant conversation with ever-changing groups of top-drawer dawgs, shaking all the right hands, and apparently, kissing all the right asses.
My research showed that in his role as head of trading at Fidelity Credit Union, he has made millions by making the right deal at the right time. Most of it legal, but not without the occasional shady trade. Not exactly my cup of tea, and not my problem either. The SEC can deal with the likes of him. As long as he stays off my turf, we won’t have a problem.
My eyes return to Blake. She’s now studying the grotesque painting above the mantel with fascinated horror. What would I give to know what’s going through that pretty, bright head of hers?
She scans the crowd next, and her face turns into an expression very much resembling the sad-faced emoji. It doesn’t take a genius to surmise she, like me, has had enough of the boring-out-of-our-minds evening and would rather cut off a limb than strike up a conversation with anyone in the room—I count myself out, of course. She’s just scared of what talking to me would lead to.
Blake straightens up and, with one last glare at the conference guests, she makes a beeline for the exit.
On instinct, my gaze whips back to Justin, and I catch the exact moment he spots Blake crossing the lobby.
I don’t miss the way his eyes widen in surprise at seeing his ex stalking across the foyer or the lewd smile that curls his lips once his brain has processed the visual message. Teeth grinding, I watch him excuse himself from his present company and hurry after her.
I remain calm as he makes his approach. But when I see him wrap his greasy paw around Blake’s elbow to keep her from leaving, my blood simmers. What the hell?
I grip my glass so hard I’m afraid it might break.
