Chapter 4
Tucking the folder under his arm, Everett turned the last corner of the two-block walk from the Hotel Braganza to the “official” offices of Stingray Security.
Located on the second floor of a shuttered, arched-facade colonial building on Pell Street in the heart of Conrad, it garnered all the attention and legitimacy they’d wanted.
More than enough to distract from their covert operations at the compound, dozens of miles away.
He pulled open the back door and took the stairs the way he always did when Conrad wasn’t fully awake.
At just past eight, only a handful of eager tourists, still struggling with the time change, walked along the cobblestone esplanade, gripping cups of coffee in the quiet stretch before the shops and vendor carts opened.
By the time he reached the top of the stairs, he was already in work mode, cycling through his to-do list, prioritizing tasks, and thinking through details for upcoming clients.
Important responsibilities to knock out before he showed up at Rocco and Jemma's party that afternoon.
Then his mind would be clear to focus on what really mattered.
How close would he let himself get to Remington?
Everett pushed through the frosted glass door and stopped.
Monique, their receptionist, sat rigid at her desk with the stillness of someone who desperately wanted not to be noticed. Her gaze cut to Everett the moment he stepped inside, wide and urgent, then darted immediately to the far corner of the open office.
He followed her gaze and saw Eric Gilliam standing in the doorway of his office.
Not entirely unexpected since he knew his father would be dropping by today to hand over the keys to the kingdom, so to speak.
But Bobby Zaniewski, jabbing a finger toward his father as he spoke in a hushed, angry tone, was the definition of unexpected.
Why was Bobby here, arguing with his dad?
He never came to this office. It was purposely equipped with the bare minimum technology. Nothing close to the caliber that Bobby ran at his company. Definitely not the special operative-level technology at the Stingray compound.
Bobby Zaniewski had no reason to be here.
And he sure as hell had no reason to talk to Everett’s dad.
The wrongness of it settled into Everett's chest as he watched them.
His father was a tall man, broad-shouldered and composed, with blonde hair gone mostly silver now and eyes a shade of deep Pacific blue.
He was dressed in a light sport coat and a collared shirt.
He held the kind of unhurried ease that came from decades of never needing to explain himself to anyone.
Bobby had a similar build, but none of his father's ease. He looked like a man running on fumes. His hair was mussed, collar crooked, shirt half untucked, shadows carved beneath his eyes like sleep had been the least of what he’d missed last night.
Eric’s response was too low for Everett to hear.
But it was enough for Bobby to deflate. His anger shattered, leaving only a shadow of him behind.
Everett took a step toward them. Bobby turned at the sound, registering his presence.
Hatred flashed across his face before settling into a hard, cutting glare that made Everett’s skin go cold.
Bobby moved past him, hit the glass door with his palm, and was gone.
The door swung shut behind him with enough force that Monique flinched.
Everett set his folder on the reception desk without looking at Monique.
"Give us a few minutes," he said.
She gathered her coffee and her phone and disappeared down the hallway without a word.
Slipping his hands in his pockets, Eric cocked his head as a wry smile played on his lips.
"What was that about?" Everett asked.
“For some reason, Remi’s husband felt the need to introduce himself.” His dad shrugged. “Trust me. I didn’t want any part of that conversation.”
“Looked more like an argument than a conversation.”
This may have been their first official introduction, but Bobby was no stranger to Eric Gilliam.
He’d made a point of assembling a detailed dossier on the man within hours of hearing about Remi’s marriage to him.
His dad had never pretended to be above interference when it came to those who stood in the way of his son’s happiness.
“Looks can be deceiving.” Eric rested his hand on Everett’s shoulder and gave him a gentle squeeze.
He should let it go. There was no way his dad would give him the details. No way he’d tell him anything that would make co-existing with Remi and her husband any harder on Everett than it already was. It wasn’t like he needed another reason to hate Bobby Zaniewski.
But he couldn’t.
“And this conversation was about?”
Eric shook his head. A single move that made Everett regret asking before the answer came. He should have let it go.
“Remi …”
Her name hung in the air between them.
“For some reason, Bobby thought his wife was here with you,” his dad said, raising an eyebrow. “Anything you want to tell me?”
“No,” Everett snapped. His mind raced to places it had no right to be.
The rumors about Bobby cheating. But he knew that if Remington had gotten proof of her husband’s infidelity, he would be the last person she’d turn to …
for obvious reasons. Proof that he hadn’t been able to uncover, despite years of trying to catch Bobby in the act.
Changing the subject, he asked, “You brought the keys?”
His father gave him a knowing look, then reached into his jacket pocket and placed them in Everett's palm.
“Moving into the house will be an enormous sacrifice for you,” his father said with a grin. “But it will bring your mama some peace to know it’s not empty while we’re away building the new resort, and that will make this old guy’s life a whole lot easier.”
“I live to make your life easier,” Everett said, rolling his eyes.
House was an understatement. A three-story mansion on a private island off the coast of St. Felipe with views of the ocean from every room.
Gilliam Family memories were stamped across every inch of it.
The island his grandparents rented for his parents to say their I do’s.
A few years later, it was the gift his dad gave to his mom to celebrate Everett’s birth, because that was the kind of man Eric Gilliam was.
The kind who marked significant moments of his life with real estate.
Now his parents were off for the next couple of years, heading to the Indian Ocean to develop their first resort in the Seychelles. It was a huge undertaking to expand into a new area after decades as the dominant developer in the Caribbean and Central America.
His family had built an empire in this region, project by project, with Hullabaloo Enterprises among the first and most significant.
The King Family's colonial mansion had needed a modern corporate headquarters built into its estate, and his parents had flown out to oversee the construction themselves.
That summer, fifteen-year-old Everett had stood in the scaffolding shade and met a boy named Ike da Costa, who'd introduced him to everyone who mattered.
Including Remington.
"Got plans for the day?" his father asked. "My plane doesn't fly out until this evening."
"Going to Rocco and Jemma's housewarming."
He didn’t mention who would also be there.
He could already hear the conversation he was sparing them both from.
The one about honoring love, time being the one resource you couldn't recover, his mother lighting a candle every Sunday for a situation she had no business praying over.
His father had a gift for finding the exact angle at which good advice became unbearable.
"A party." His father brightened. "I could be your wingman?—"
"Absolutely not." Everett picked up his folder. "Don't you have networking to do? Line up your next development for after the Seychelles project is complete.”
"Nothing," his father said cheerfully, "is more important than being there for my only child. I love you, kid."
"Get out of here." Everett made a motion toward the door that fell somewhere between a wave and a shove. "The last thing I need is to show up at a party with my?—"
“Very cool, devilishly handsome?—"
"Dad." He pushed him gently toward the door.
His father went, laughing, the sound of it lingering in the stairwell long after the glass door had swung shut behind him.
Everett stood in the empty office and looked down at the keys.
Conrad hummed below the window—a delivery cart, voices rising and falling in easy Palmchat patois, the low horn of the first morning ferry across the harbor. In a few hours, Remington would walk into Rocco and Jemma's housewarming. Alone. Maybe even disappointed in her husband.
It was a dangerous possibility.
One he wouldn’t think about anymore.
Grabbing the folder, he crossed to his desk and opened the file. He spread the papers in front of him, forcing his mind onto the client, the timeline, the details. Better to lose himself in work than spend one more second thinking about the woman he chose to walk away from years ago.