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8
MADS
The way I just treated her is abhorrent, I know that. But I saw the way she looked at me when I flipped her onto her back. Those eyes were pleading for something more, something I can’t offer her.
I don’t know what this was about for her, and I don’t want to know. Maybe some fucked-up way to feel something but whatever the reason, it can’t happen again. And the surest way to let her know that is to make her not want it to happen again.
“Hey, make sure Emery gets home safe.” I nod at Tony as I head toward my home office where I plan to lock myself away for the night and drink till I pass out. “And whatever you do, don’t let her come find me.”
* * *
“Tokyo went well?”
Foster leans back in his chair across from my desk. “Tokyo went fantastic. They’re very on board with the acquisition. We just need to dot a few i’s, cross a few t’s, and entertain the hell out of them when they’re here next month.”
“I’ll be sure to give them a night they won’t forget.” I’ll take them to the same club I take all of our special clients to: The Scarlett Letter. I own the club, bought it the second I turned twenty-one. It was just a lounge at that point, but I added the VIP basement within two years of buying it, and to say it’s been a success is an understatement.
Because of the nature of the VIP level, our membership qualifications and due diligence are unwaveringly rigid. It’s not just a party for the rich and famous; you have to sign NDAs with blood, show financial statements, and sign over collateral worth one hundred million on top of the annual fee of one million.
“What about Emery?”
“What about her?”
“Is she going to be an issue for us when the news goes public that we bought the company that was supposed to be bought by Ashford?”
“I doubt it.” Honestly, I fully expect it to be a problem. Emery isn’t an idiot; she watches the news, keeps up on business, and has a pretty good finger on the pulse considering she’s the majority share owner in one of the largest companies in the world.
“Doubt it?” Foster lifts an eyebrow at me.
“I’ll handle it if it does become an issue.”
“You know there’s one surefire way to keep any of this bullshit from becoming an issue, right?”
“I’m not going to tell her.” Foster has asked me half a dozen times now why I don’t just come clean to Emery about what kind of piece of shit Dane was.
“I get that you want to be noble and no—”
“I don’t give a fuck about being noble. I just don’t need more people knowing our goddamn business. I trust Emery but there’s no reason to be telling anyone else the truth about what went down outside of you and me.”
“Just saying that it might make life easier. I get you don’t want to hurt her more than necessary, but at some point, she’s going to start digging. I guarantee it.” Foster stands up and buttons his suit coat before exiting my office.
I push my chair back harder than necessary when I stand up, frustration making me antsy. I pace, then stare out the window of my office. The sun dances across the lake, my eyes watching it sparkle like diamonds. Foster is right. I know it’s only a matter of time before Em starts digging. Why wouldn’t she? Her husband randomly kills himself with zero signs of depression? Thankfully, the saving grace in the situation is, she didn’t know her husband was too much of an egocentric asshole to ever kill himself.
My mind drifts back to Emery. The image of her beneath me in my bed has been running through my brain on a loop for the last two days. I was shocked when I didn’t hear her pounding on my office door or calling my phone after the way I left her. Maybe it says more about my fragile ego than it does about my actions. I’m ashamed of the way I left her. My attempt to not hurt her further by shielding her from the truth about her husband has somehow turned into me now actively trying to hurt her to make her run away… far away.
I meant it when I told her I’m not the kind of man you run to. I’m not her saving grace or her knight in shining armor. I’m the devil in disguise in her bed. My stomach pits when I think about the irony of the situation I’ve put myself in.
“Mr. Bishop? There’s an Emery Ashford here to see you.”
You gotta be fucking kidding me.
“Right now?”
“Yes, sir. Should I send her in?”
I nod toward my admin before nervously running my hands through my hair. I button my jacket and square my shoulders.
“I figure there’s no use calling you or trying to get an appointment. If I want to see you, I’m going to have to show up and demand your time.” She looks like a young Rita Hayworth, her red hair swept off to one side, an Hermes scarf wrapped delicately around her neck that matches her pale-pink dress.
