Chapter 4
four
“Graham Everett.”
Grayson’s personal assistant greets me with a deep frown. Her sharp gray eyes match the tight silver bun at the back of her head. And her dour expression goes perfectly with her joyless black suit—one of a hundred, I’m convinced.
In addition to a never-ending stream of ugly office wear, Beth also seems to possess an infinite supply of disapproval. Shaking her head at me, she rounds her desk and draws herself into a formidable stance—quite the feat for someone three times my age and a foot shorter than me.
“You know you’re supposed to wait down in the lobby and let me buzz you up,” she chides. “There are security protocols for a reason , young man.”
“I—”
Her gaze cuts into mine, silencing me. “And I won’t have you derailing his schedule today,” she continues, reaching out to smooth her wrinkled hand over my Brioni tie. “No more of your three-hour lunches. He has someone special waiting for him at home now, and besides that, he is a CEO. He must act like one.”
Grayson exits his office and appears behind her, smirking. “She gives me the same lecture at least once a week,” he chuckles. Beth huffs a long-suffering sigh and turns to adjust his tie as well.
“Did you get that suit off a corpse?” I ask my best friend, eyeing the charcoal material and matching tie. “Or are you working for the Secret Service now?”
Grayson inspects his sleeves, unbothered by my critique. “Ella’s favorite. It’s Armani.”
“It’s boring as fuck,” I correct, only to have his secretary shoot me a glare. That is another one of her rules: no profanity in the office. “I mean boring as frick . Do excuse me.”
Excuse me .
The words remind me of my elevator encounter. I shift on my feet, wondering if the semi I’ve been sporting since the lobby will abate any time soon.
Probably not as long as you keep picturing her tits. And ass .
“You’re excused,” Beth snaps, eyeing me like I’m a fox in her hen house. Which… fair . “Now, both of you run along to the conference room. It’s five after nine, and the first group is waiting. The next set will be in at ten.”
Grayson’s green eyes lit up. “Including?—”
Beth’s mouth almost flits up at the corners. “Including the future Mrs. Stryker, yes.”
She dismisses us, and we turn toward the archway that leads out to the main floor. “Two meetings?” I say, looking at him askance.
Grayson nods at someone as we walk past. “Professional and personal.”
“Which set am I? You told me to block out nine until eleven.”
His smile turns ominous. “You’re both.”
Gradually, his meaning sinks in. “Oh God. You had me haul my balls all the way up here for wedding planning ?”
He laughs, steering us toward the single largest room on the floor. “Not entirely. The first hour will focus on my personal holdings, finances… and investments.” He shoots me a pointed look. “That’s where you come in.”
I do my best to keep a straight face. But inside, my stomach lurches.
You shouldn’t be here . Damn, my conscious sounds raspy. Like its voice is hoarse from lack of use. You made a promise .
But it wasn’t a promise in writing. And it isn’t a promise that benefits me. So why should I care?
Because he’s your father , the voice hisses. Because you gave him your word .
Yes, I did.
But, unfortunately for dear old Dad, he and I are cut from the same (flimsy) cloth.
My grandfather was a famous investment banker, known for his ability to triple even the most obscenely wealthy’s bottomline. He started our family firm, Everett Alexander. Grandfather brought my father, Hugh, on board when he was my age.
The elder Everett passed away some years ago, but before that, they steadily produced amazing returns for their clients. And made themselves very wealthy in the process.
Now, it’s my turn.
At least, I think so.
But Dad believes I need to earn my place by doing grunt work. He gave me the CFO title but, instead of assigning me clients of my own, he stuck me in an old storage room to molder with filing cabinets full of tax forms. I spend my days with archived account books, entering records into our computer system line-by-line so we can eventually go paperless.
That is my life—data entry. And boredom so dire I swear one day I’ll just drop dead at my desk.
But I’m a licensed trader.
An Ivy League finance graduate.
And Graham Fucking Everett.
If he won’t give me real clients from the firm, I’ll find my own.
Clients like Grayson Stryker, the youngest billionaire in Manhattan.
“So I’m your broker for the next fifty-three minutes, and then I’m your bitch boy?” I quip, yanking the conference room door open.
Grayson strides past me, as unruffled as ever. “I think they call it ‘best man.’ Although, ‘bitch boy’ has a nice ring to it.”
The boardroom is just as colorless and modern as the rest of the office—white walls to the left and right match the marble floor, and a massive conference table lined with clear acrylic rolling chairs.
At least the curved wall of windows offers a staggering view of Midtown—specifically, St. Patrick’s Cathedral and the urban sprawl beyond. I keep my eyes trained on it as I drop into the seat nearest to the door.
Grayson makes his way to the head of the table, throwing out introductions as he goes. “Good morning, everyone. This is my friend and fellow Columbia grad, Graham Everett. For the purposes of this meeting, he’ll be acting as my broker. Graham, this is my accountant, Milton Boyle. My head of real estate acquisitions, Beatrice Dunn. My director of legal, Dominic Carter, and our newest junior counsel, Juliet Rivera.”
My eyes follow his words, sliding from one new face to the next. Until they finally land on the person next to me.
On her .
The woman in the red dress.
Jesus .
At least now I know just how fucked I really am.