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“You don’t have to thank me. I was happy to do it.”
Our gazes lingered, the noise from the restaurant fading beneath the weight of unspoken words.
Sunlight streamed through the windows, throwing shadows beneath her cheekbones and highlighting the fine blond strands framing her face. The glacial-blue pools shielding her eyes cracked, revealing a sliver of vulnerability that grabbed hold of my heart and squeezed.
She was so fucking beautiful it almost hurt to look at her. I wondered if she knew that.
I wondered if she knew how much she occupied my thoughts and how I counted down the minutes to seeing her again when we were apart.
I wondered if I’d upended her life the way she had mine, to the point where the pieces would no longer fit if she weren’t there, because she wasn’t a pit stop; she was the destination.
The bullet from earlier dug deeper.
I opened my mouth, but Sloane blinked and looked away before I said something I regretted—not because I wouldn’t mean it, but because it would’ve been too much, too fast for her.
Disappointment and relief swirled in equal measure. “Speaking of calls, I got one from Rhea last night,” she said, effectively breaking the moment. She tucked a stray strand of hair behind her ear, the pink on her cheeks darkening to a dusky rose. “She said a check mysteriously showed up in her mailbox yesterday. The sender kept their identity anonymous, but the money is enough to cover at least one year’s worth of food and living expenses.”
“Really?” I maintained a neutral expression. “That’s pretty lucky. I guess good things do happen to good people.”
“I guess they do.” Sloane paused, then said pointedly, “I mentioned Rhea’s address over Thanksgiving, didn’t I? When I said I would send her money to tide her over while she finds a new job?”
“Did you?” I picked up the menu and scanned it for something to eat. We should order soon; I was starving. “I don’t remember.”
“Hmm.” Sloane’s mouth twitched. “I’m sure you don’t.”
A small grin curled in response to her knowing tone, but neither of us pursued that line of conversation. Instead, we switched to something even more satisfying: revenge.
“Are we still on for Dante and Viv’s party this weekend?” she asked.
She’d told me her plan for Operation PW, and the party was crucial to its execution. It would also give me an opportunity to talk to Dante and hopefully get some answers. Most importantly, I’d get to spend more time with Sloane and her friends—not that I was angling for her friends’ approval or anything. But having them on my side couldn’t hurt, could it?
I smiled. “I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”
CHAPTER32
Sloane
Operation Perry Wilson went into full effect that Saturday at Dante and Vivian’s annual holiday gala.
Before Josephine was born, they’d hosted it at their house, but since they didn’t want to disturb the newborn, they rented out the Valhalla Club’s ballroom for an “intimate” gathering featuring three hundred of Manhattan’s richest and most powerful.
One of those three hundred was Kai Young.
“I know that look,” he said when I approached him at the bar. I’d brought Xavier as my date, but we’d split to take care of our respective businesses first—me with Kai, him with Dante. “Who are you planning to destroy?”
Next to him, Isabella gave me a grin and a thumbs-up when he wasn’t looking. She’d offered to broach the subject with Kai, but I’d declined. This was my fight, and she’d already gone above and beyond.
“I think you know,” I said. “He’s a mutual thorn in our sides.”
“Let me guess.” Kai glanced at his fiancée, who quickly averted her gaze and pretended to study her drink. “Initials PW?”
“Yes.”
“He’s a disreputable blogger. I know you’re upset about recent posts he’s published”—Kai’s tone indicated Isabella had ranted to him about it on more than one occasion—“but as the CEO of a media company, I can’t get involved in my friends’ personal fights.”
“This isn’t personal,” I said. “He may be a disreputable blogger, but you’ve been battling him for web traffic and clicks foryears. Plus, you despise the man. He’s everything that’s wrong with journalism.”
“What he does isn’t journalism,” Kai said immediately. I arched an eyebrow, and after a small beat, he shook his head with a wry smile. “Point taken.”
