“Can’t. Some of us have to work.” He rounds the bed, leaning down to kiss my lips. “I’ve got interviews for the new team to head the metals divisions.”
“Hey! I have interviews this week too.” Just saying that out loud sounds so foreign, but Zaheera insists I need an assistant to help with the administrative things. Her team has already vetted a pile of résumés and selected the best three candidates for me to choose from.
I assume she’ll also tell me which one I should hire.
“You should get up, then.”
I burrow back under the covers, planning on sleeping until my hangover headache—the second day in a row—fades.
The duvet flies away with a yank. I howl as Henry slaps my bare ass. “Shower. Now.” Henry’s giddy. He’s never giddy in the morning, especially not on a Monday.
I watch his perfect, naked body move toward the en suite. Seeing his friends this weekend definitely lifted his spirits, but I think this mood has more to do with a certain sassy blue-eyed girl.
“I have to fly to Barcelona next week,” Henry tells me through a sip of his coffee, his gaze on his phone as he reads through urgent emails. “I’ll be gone four days. Let Miles know if you’re coming with me?”
I try to hide my dismay at the idea of Henry gone for that long. “I can’t. I wish I could, but I have way too much to do for this launch, including making the actual soap. And I’m meeting with Jill. And I have assignments to catch up on or I won’t get those credits.” Just listing out the warring priorities has me stressed. “I need Victor to drive me to my office today if you don’t need him?” It still sounds odd to call the little commercial space across the Lincoln Tunnel in New Jersey that I’ve rented “my office.”
Henry’s smile is soft. “I like seeing you like this.”
“Like what? Overwhelmed?”
“Busy with things that are yours and important to you. Don’t worry, you’ll manage it.”
He’s talking about my company and my education. Even the wedding, which is technically ours, but Control Freak Henry wants me to make the decisions so it’s one hundred percent what I want.
My phone chirps with a text from Autumn.
Autumn: Not to be the bearer of bad news on a Monday morning, but you did ask me to send you anything that comes up.
I click on the celebrity gossip site link she included. And gasp in horror.
Wolf Heir and Assistant Spotted at Exclusive High Society Sex Party with Friends Margo Lauren and Hedge Fund Playboy Preston Abbott.
“I thought you said it was a secret party!” My stomach sinks as I see a grainy picture of Henry and I stepping out of Victor’s car on Saturday night, our masks firmly in place. But it’s us—the black-and-white stripes of my tights, my red braid stretching down my back. They’ve circled my hand again, as if the barely visible ring is recognizable. They really love doing that.
Henry rounds the counter to look over my shoulder. “They can’t tell that’s us.”
“But they can here.” Another picture shows us outside of our building. We weren’t wearing our masks then. More pictures show the others leaving our building in costume. Whoever wrote this story assumed—correctly—that we were all going to the same party.
“Whatever. Deny it.”
“But look at the headline!”
“There’s no proof of what went on inside that warehouse.” He is too calm for my liking.
“Well, they obviously know something.” Someone has talked to them about what goes on at these costume parties. “What if they have pictures from inside?” Just the thought of that makes me want to vomit. I scroll further, but there aren’t any more candid shots of us, only advertisements.
“They don’t have anything. Remember those metal detectors we went through? The organizers take their security very seriously.”
Henry’s vow brings me little comfort. Another dark thought stirs. “This means someone followed us. They sat outside, waiting for us to leave, and then tailed us all the way there.” It took almost an hour with traffic to get to that warehouse. Was it this Luca/Frank/Hank guy who’s been calling everyone I know? It’s been weeks since that initial phone call.
“I know. That’s what they do. They’re vile cockroaches, but if they can make money off this shit, there’s no getting rid of them.” Henry sighs. “I’m sorry.”
“It’s not your fault.” I smooth my palm over his forearm. “But why us? I can understand following Margo around, but you’re not an actor.”