Chapter 17
Chapter
Seventeen
“A girl should be two things: classy and fabulous.”
― Coco Chanel
Jade
“I’ve never looked worse in my life, Sofiya. I’m so embarrassed,” I groaned, popping another hummus-dipped chip into my mouth. “My reputation is ruined! People know me for my bold fashion sense, and on that stage? I looked like a poor homeless woman who wandered off to the food bank but somehow ended up on live TV instead.”
The press statement about Pauline Dupont’s suicide had been two weeks ago, yet the memory still haunted me—mainly how absolutely wrecked I’d looked on TV.
Turns out, without concealer, I look like I’m on my third round of antidepressants, chasing it with a bottle of Jack.
Maybe that was my real talent: looking like a walking mental breakdown.
Sofiya laughed on the other end of the line. “You looked fine, Jadie, I swear. Just a little tired,” she reassured me, her daughter Joy’s giggles echoing in the background. “Wait—Joy, put that down! You’re going to hurt yourself!”
Sofiya Volkov was my best friend—the only person I ever let close enough to glimpse the real me, or at least as much as I allowed.
We had used to work together when she’d been an art contractor at Lazzio Exhibits Inc., back when she’d moved to New York a few years ago. That was, until her ex—an insanely hot, but maddeningly possessive Russian mobster—had found her, begged for forgiveness, and proposed right there on his knees.
How’d they meet? Let’s just say it was too sinful to recount.
Sofiya always claimed it was a string of sinful promises that had pulled them together.
Mikha?l Volkov.
I couldn’t help but hate the man a little—he’d stolen her away, turning our daily hangouts into a long-distance friendship I’m terrible at, but am doing my best to keep alive.
They’d had their first child, Joy, four years ago, and now Sofiya was pregnant again —with a boy this time. Volkov chaining her to Moscow all over again only made me curse him harder. We could have been tearing up New York City like we’d used to, but no, he had her playing housewife.
Still, she was disgustingly happy, and I couldn’t help but grin like an idiot every time we caught up over the phone or on Skype. I missed her like hell. They only make it to New York a few times a year, and it was never enough.
I popped another chip into my mouth, half listening as Sofiya scolded her little devil, who was proudly yelling, “Papa lets me do whatever I want!”
“Yeah? Keep talking, and your papa’s getting punished with you,” Sofiya shot back. “And trust me, he won’t like the kind of punishment I have in mind.”
I snorted. “He deserves it for knocking you up again. That’s for sure.”
She laughed. “Shut up.”
From the corner of my eye, I caught sight of Grace sprinting through the entry lounge, clutching two white bags sporting a logo I knew all too well. Bagels I didn’t need to. The heat of his gaze burned against my skin, unmistakable and furious.
No doubt he was already running through a dozen calculated ways to make me regret every teasing second of this.
Good.
Let him stew.
The man could use a lesson in loosening up, even if it killed him—or better yet, drove him mad first. Besides, I’d be lying if I said it wasn’t downright delicious to leave the man who had destroyed my life smoldering like that.
James Greg entered, nearly bumping into me.
At sixty-seven, the silver in his hair and the lines on his face didn’t make him look old—just more intimidating.
His suit was impeccable, his gaze even more intense, and there was a flicker of mischief in his eyes as he took me in. Like he knew my deepest, darkest secret, and couldn’t wait to use it against me.
He took my hand, pressing a kiss to the top of it.
“Beautiful Jade Whitenhouse,” he said smoothly. “Always a pleasure to see you. Shame it doesn’t happen more often.”
“The pleasure is all mine, Mr. Greg.”
The playful spark in his eyes dimmed for a beat, his voice lowering to something more serious.
“I’m here to offer my condolences on Pauline Dupont,” he said, softer now, but with an unsettling calm that prickled under my skin. “I heard you two were close.”
My posture stiffened, the mention of Pauline’s name tightening something inside me.
I forced a tight smile. “We were… close enough, yes. Thanks for the kind words, Mr. Greg.”
His eyes lingered on me for a beat too long, a flicker of something unreadable passing through them.
“I know loss can be… complicated. But I’m sure you know how to handle it. After all, you’re a strong woman, working for the explosive Angelo Lazzio.”
Lazzio’s dark gaze flicked to him.
“I can handle a lot more than you think, sir.”
“Oh, I have no doubt about that, Miss Whitenhouse.”
I excused myself with a smile that was polite but didn’t quite reach my eyes, casually mentioning that I had work to finish. It was a subtle, yet clear signal that the conversation was over.
I added that I hoped to see him and his wife, Laurie, at the upcoming exhibition in two weeks, though it was a total lie.
But just as I hit the threshold, his voice stopped me.
“And I hope to see you on Friday for our Thanksgiving celebration in Aspen,” he said. “Angelo’s coming, after all. It’d be a shame if his precious little diamond of a COO didn’t make it.”
Before I could respond, Lazzio’s voice slid in.
“Miss Whitenhouse has plans this weekend?—”
“Yeah, I do,” I cut him off. “But I can make time. I’d love to come, Mr. Greg.”
If Lazzio could’ve shot daggers with his eyes, I’d be six feet under by now.
“Perfect, see you on Friday then.”
With a nod, I spun and sauntered out, the smile still playing on my lips.
As I passed Grace’s desk, her glare could’ve burned a hole in me.
She hissed out, “Satan.”
I smirked, enjoying the fire in her eyes.
Let her burn. It only made my little victory sweeter.