Chapter 52
Genevieve
“How many clients have we lost?” I ask.
Corinne and Marcus glance at each other, and I know before my best friend even answers that it’s going to be bad.
“Eighty-eight.”
I close my eyes briefly and take a deep breath, slowly exhaling through my nose. That’s far more damage than I expected. Especially considering that most of those clients aren’t specifically mine.
Guilt that my employees lost out on precious income because of me and my fickle desire to submit stabs me in the heart, radiating throughout my chest until it laces itself around every rung of my ribcage.
“How many employees did we lose?” This is the question I’ve been dreading, but the one that’s more important to me than the number of clients I’ve lost.
There are far too many Leos walking the streets. I’ve been out there before, so I know there aren’t all that many establishments like the one I run. If they aren’t working for me, then they’re vulnerable, exposed.
Corinne’s dark eyes soften to liquid pools of milk chocolate. “Twenty-four.”
My stomach bottoms out. Twenty-four endangered people.
“I want lists,” I tell them both.
Corinne gives me a small smile, dipping her chin. “I already have them for you.”
She passes me a small stack of stark-white papers with organized lists of the employees who have left as well as the clients and which of my employees they frequented.
Scanning the list, I find that I’ve lost the majority of my own clients, but a significant number of Liam’s and Sloane’s are among the names that have left. Every single one of us has lost someone.
Clenching my fists, I try to tamp down my contempt. I kept those secrets safe when I could’ve used them to release myself from prison. I’ve always considered them to be a last resort, so perhaps I need to remind these wayward clients who chose to keep their confidences.
I sigh audibly, setting the list on my desk. “Who are the personal clients I have left, if any?”
Corinne nods. “Henry.” No surprise there. “Elliott,” she continues.
Two.
I’ve been the most prestigious, highly sought-after Madam in the United States for the better part of a decade, and I have two fucking clients left. Everything I’ve spent the last decade building, nearly burned to ash.
But I’m not so easily beaten. Ask Leo.
Taking a fortifying breath, I tell Corinne and Marcus, “Let’s start making calls.”
We spend the majority of the day on the phone, reassuring both clients and employees alike that we’re still in business and their secrets are safe and sound, untouchable by the Feds.
It’s true. While they may have kept my red journal, I can sleep at night knowing they’ll never access the contents.
Although, I’m finding that it’s difficult to convince my clients of that fact.
I’ve managed to talk twelve of my employees into coming back, the remaining sixteen either refusing to take my calls or mentioned they weren’t interested in returning.
I was a little apprehensive about how Sloane might take it when I told her that Clark wouldn’t be her client anymore. It turns out that anxiety was baseless. She’d just winked and said, “I think we both know he was always your client.”
The clients are another story entirely. They’re far more skittish, with good reason.
If I’d told someone I was taking money from Japan to ensure certain laws were passed in their favor or that I was sleeping with the Prime Minister of Great Britain, I’d want to distance myself, too.
But no matter how fast you run, your past will always beat you.
The sun is long gone by the time we put down our phones, finally digging into the dinner Brett dropped off for the three of us. We’ve managed to recover nearly fifty clients, but there’s something unsettling about the ones I’ve lost.
I find it impossible to believe those lost clients are going without sex, which means they’ve gone elsewhere. I can’t imagine they’re picking up women on the street corner either. The more I think about it, the angrier I grow.
My lip curls as I clutch my fork tightly, my wedding band glinting beneath the overhead lights. Someone is exploiting my situation, capitalizing on my temporary stumble.
I refuse to be toppled. I’m going to burn this city to the ground with nothing but an army of whispers. My shadowy murmurs in the dark will slice and dice until those who run this country are broken and bleeding, exposed for the average citizen to deal the final death blow.
The rats will run, scurrying to the inkiest corners of the world, but secrets, like the plague of corruption, take no prisoners, eating their victims alive. And the secrets I’ll unlock will devour.
They should have let the devil lie.
Corinne giggles at something Marcus says as I reach for my phone, typing out an encrypted email and going to war.
It’s half-past eleven when I step into the lobby of Ford’s penthouse, Marcus having dropped me off on his way home.
The horde of reporters is still gathered outside, but the police must’ve deemed that the barricade wasn’t necessary anymore, since that’s absent for the first time.
I like to think that may mean the media blitz is beginning to subside as people move on to other gossip and news in the never-ending cycle of bigger and better headlines.
I bend down to slip my stilettos off when the sound of voices reaches me on a phantom breeze, and I perk up. Keeping my heels on, I stalk toward the sound.
I wish excited anticipation didn’t buzz in my veins as I step into the kitchen, my eyes landing on Ford, where he leans against the kitchen island.
He’s lost his suit jacket somewhere, his white shirtsleeves rolled up to reveal tanned, muscled forearms. His hair is tousled and loose, as though he’s tugged on the strands too often today.
His blue eyes land on mine, hardening a fraction before flicking back to the other man. Disappointment trickles through me, and I hate myself for it. Why can’t I get it together? When I capture his attention, I look for an escape, yet when I lose it, I find myself bereft, craving his focus.
“Hello there, pretty lady,” the handsome blond announces, turning toward me with a devilish smirk.
A quick glance at Ford’s set jaw tells me everything I need to know. I find myself overcome with the desire to paint his face green with envy for no reason other than a bit of fun. It’s been a long night, I deserve it.
“Hello, good looking,” I purr seductively. “Who might you be?”
Out of the corner of my eye, I notice Ford tightening his grip around his scotch, his knuckles white, but it isn’t half as satisfying as I thought it’d be.
“This asshole’s better half,” the attractive stranger replies as he tosses a thumb toward Ford.
“And here I thought he didn’t have a good side,” I snark, shooting a wink in Ford’s direction.
Ford doesn’t chuckle, but the other man does, the hearty sound filling the kitchen. “I knew I’d like you. I’m Drake.”
“Ah, the infamous Drake. It’s been a long time since I heard your name, fourteen years, to be precise.” A genuine smile curls my lips. “I recall hearing something about you suspecting I’d turn out to be an old man.”
He puts his hands up in surrender. “I take it back. You’re far prettier than he deserves.”
“You’re home late,” Ford interjects, effectively ending my conversation with his best friend. He’s turned to face the countertop of the island, his gaze dark and cold where he pins me with a heavy stare.
My smile dissolves. “I worked late,” I answer flatly and turn toward the hallway.
“Seeing a client?”
I twist back in his direction, arching an eyebrow. “Does it matter?”
“Yes.”
Rancor flares in my chest all over again.
Why do you care? I roll my eyes. “No, I was not with a client. Thanks to you, I hardly have any left.”
“Have you eaten?” he inquires, avoiding my comment altogether.
“What’s it to you?” I snap back, entirely uncaring of the audience. “You think you’re my Dom?” I huff a laugh, even as my stomach twists. “My wellbeing is none of your concern.”
The prominent vein in his neck strains against the flawless skin of his neck. Setting the scotch on the counter, he folds his arms over his chest. “I don’t have to be your Dom to give a shit.”
“Answer me this, Ford. Are you even a Dom at all?” I counter. How much of this was real for you?
He takes several steps toward me, his chest expanding with measured breaths, and the urge to drop to the floor claws at my mind.
We could’ve had something dynamic and earth-shattering, but he threw that away when he arrested me. Now, all that’s left holding us together is the tragic knowledge that we had something once, a lifetime ago.
“Well, I think that’s my cue to get the fuck out of here,” Drake mutters, but I don’t spare him a glance, my gaze fixed on Ford, even as I hear the elevator ding.
Moving with the fluid grace of an apex predator, he slips past me and drags out a chair at the kitchen table, turning it to face me and taking a seat. He spreads his legs, and if the stance didn’t look undeniably authoritative and powerful, I’d call him a tool.
“Come here.”
My eyebrows scrunch, and I waver as I try to make sense of what the fuck he’s getting at. “Why?”
“Because I said so, and well-behaved dolls follow their Dominants instructions.”
“You cannot be serious.” But even as I say the words, my body flashes hot, my nipples tightening. I should not be into this after everything that’s happened with him.
“I can assure you, I’m quite sincere. Come here.” His expression is firm, his eyes glinting with the prospect of punishment should I decide not to do as I’m told.
Okay, so pushing him may have held a risk I hadn’t entirely considered. I find my legs moving of their own accord, my body desperate to do exactly as he requests.