Of course, Dante wasn’t wrong. I’d avoided Valhalla like the plague since the fall gala. Since the night I took Isabella to my hideaway—my favorite place at the club, which I’d never shown anyone— and almost kissed her.
I tossed back my drink. The scotch burned a path down my throat but couldn’t erase the memory of those big brown eyes and lush, red mouth.
One tiny dip of my head and I could’ve tasted her. Discovered for myself whether her lips were as soft as they looked and whether she tasted as sweet as I imagined.
Heat rippled through me. I set my jaw and brushed it off.
Thank God reason had prevailed before I gave in to my baser instincts. It would’ve been poor form to take one woman on a date, then kiss another woman the same night, even if the former had already left.
It would’ve been worth it, an insidious voice sang.
Shut up, another voice snapped. You never know what’s good for you.
I rubbed a hand over my face. Great. Now I was silently arguing with myself. Damn Isabella.
Dominic finished his round at the simulator. I took his place, eager for a distraction. I wasn’t a huge fan of golf, but DigiStream’s CEO loved it, and I wanted to brush up on my skills for our post-Thanksgiving game at Pine Valley.
I’d just lined up my shot when Dominic’s phone dinged.
“Kai.”
Something in his voice snapped my senses into high alert. I straightened, a cold rope of dread twisting through my gut when I saw both Dominic and Dante staring at their cells with grim expressions.
Did something happen to my mother? Maybe she was sick after all; she’d collapsed and been rushed to the hospital. Or perhaps it was my sister and newborn nephew, who were flying to Australia today. There’d been a plane accident, or a fire, or…
My dread solidified into ice as worst-case scenarios flipped through my head at lightning speed.
I reached for my phone and scanned the headlines blaring across my screen. Not my family. Relief loosened the fist around my heart, but it was short-lived.
DigiStream co-founder Colin Whidby rushed to the hospital after a drug overdose…
Tech superstar and DigiStream CEO Colin Whidby in critical condition…
“Jesus fuck.” Dante verbalized my sentiments as only Dante could. “That’s some bad timing.”
“You don’t say.” I didn’t indulge in profanity often, but the temptation to curse pushed against my lips as the implications sank in.
I knew Colin had a nasty drug habit; so did half the people on Wall Street. I didn’t like it, but I also didn’t police my business associates’ personal lives. They could do whatever they wanted as long as they weren’t hurting other people or the bottom line. Plus, of the two co-founders, Colin had been the most amenable to the deal. His co-founder Rohan Mishra had resisted until Colin brought him around.
Now, I either had to deal with Rohan or postpone closing talks until next year, likely after the CEO
vote had already happened.
Dammit.
Even without the CEO position at stake, the DigiStream deal was essential. The board might not believe me, but the video streaming service was the future of news as the world shifted from traditional media apparatuses to citizen-driven reporting.
And now, the deal that would cement my legacy was in jeopardy because a twenty-four-year-old tech bro couldn’t keep his nose out of cocaine long enough to sign a contract that would’ve made us both legends.
“Go,” Dante said, accurately reading my mood. “Let us know if you need anything.”
I responded with a curt nod, my initial panic rearranging itself into to-do items and checklists. By the time I hit the lobby, I’d already sent flowers to Colin’s hospital room via my assistant, reached out to Rohan’s office to set up a call, and assembled my team for an emergency meeting at the office.
The actions took the edge off my adrenaline, and when I stepped out into the crisp fall air, I’d regained my usual cold, practical clarity.
Colin was in the hospital, but he wasn’t dead. DigiStream was still operational, and Rohan had sat in on all the meetings. I didn’t need to catch him up on the latest developments. He might need more wooing, but the deal was in both our interests. Even someone as stubborn as him could see it.
I might be able to salvage the deal before the holidays after all. If I didn’t, I’d still become CEO.
Everything would be fine.
I reached the main intersection and was about to hail a cab when a familiar laugh hit me square in the chest.
I wasn’t conscious of stopping. All I knew was, one minute, I was moving; the next, I was frozen, watching as Isabella walked toward me. Her face was alight with animation as she talked to the vaguely familiar-looking guy next to her. Her ruby-red coat popped against the black-clad masses teeming on the sidewalk, but even without it, she would’ve been the brightest spot of the day.
She laughed again, and a sliver of something green and unpleasant curled in my chest.
I tensed, awaiting our eventual encounter. She was only a few steps away.
Closer.
Closer.
Closer…
Isabella walked past, still deep in conversation with her companion.
She hadn’t even noticed me.
“Isabella.” Her name came out sharper than I’d intended.
She glanced back, her face blanking for a second like she was trying to remember who I was.
My irritation doubled alongside the suspiciously-like-jealousy-but-couldn’t-possibly-be-jealousy tendrils snaking through my veins.
“Oh! Hi.” The blankness gave way to a surprised smile. “Kai Young outside the Upper East Side. I never thought I’d see the day.”
“Miracles happen every day.” I assessed the man beside her with a cool once-over. Late twenties or early thirties. Tall, lanky, with curly brown hair and a distinct European artist vibe amplified by his plaid scarf and ink-stained fingers.
I disliked him on sight.
“This is Leo Agnelli,” Isabella said, following my gaze. “He’s the author of one of my favorite books, The Poison Jar. Have you read it?”
That was why he looked familiar. Leo had been the darling of the literary world a few years ago.
He was still well-known, but his two-year hiatus from publishing had stunted his momentum. Rumor had it he was working on a new book, but nothing had been confirmed.
“Yes.”
Isabella was too busy gushing about him to notice my unenthused reply. “I joined a local writing group to see if it would help with my block. Today was my first meeting, so imagine my surprise when Leo showed up!”
“I’m friends with the organizer,” Leo explained. “I’m in town for some meetings, and I dropped by to say hi.”
“Perfect timing.” Isabella’s dimples flashed. “It’s like fate.”
“How fortuitous.” I didn’t understand her excitement over Leo. He was good, but he wasn’t that good.
Unlike most writers who stuck with one or two genres, Leo’s works spanned literary, contemporary, and historical fiction. The Poison Jar was the most introspective piece in his catalog, and Isabella hated lit fic.
They carried on like I hadn’t spoken.
“Are your meetings about your next book?” she asked.
“Some of them,” Leo said with a grin. “I’m working on a travel memoir about the two years I spent abroad.”