Chapter 67
sixty-seven
If I ever write a memoir, I’ll use the word “surreal.”
There really is no other way to describe standing at the end of Everett Alexander’s hated hallway, watching FBI agents and forensic techs rip through every room of my family’s company with the same sort of methodical determination they’d use to disarm a terrorist cell.
To the left, near the elevators, my new lawyer, Rachel Black, and Grayson’s recommended PR person, Ava, hover with their phones in their hands. Each typing a million miles a second.
Rachel wears a boxy pantsuit, while Ava’s dressed to kill in an emerald jumpsuit and black spiked heels. Being polar opposites, I worried they might clash—turns out they get along swimmingly.
Like two sharks .
I repress a snort and go back to observing. The team has already cleared my old office, the file room, and seven traders’ offices. My father’s is next.
Inside the pocket of my navy suit, my hand clenches into a fist. Ironic—the last time I wore the same outfit—complete with the white vest, tie, and red handkerchief—I had to ball my hands in my pockets for an entirely different reason.
I know Dad is in there, with his lawyer. A captain going down with his ship. At least, Ava claims, that’s how she would spin it if she were doing his PR.
As it stands, she has every news network in the city outside, waiting for his perp walk. I’ve already spent the better half of the morning at a press conference, delivering the statement she wrote for me.
I originally thought I’d make my speech after I watched my legacy go through the shredder. But Ava and Rachel explained the importance of setting the narrative before anyone else can create one. That meant speaking to the press before a single photo of my father in handcuffs hit the internet.
I wonder if Jules has seen the news yet. I’m trying not to let it bother me that I haven’t heard from her yet. It isn’t even midday, though.
She just spent a day and night helping her dad’s girlfriend give birth. She probably raced right to the office this morning, running on fumes . I need to relax.
Waiting for her still stings. Today of all days.
As much as I hate it… I need her .
I resist the urge to rock on my heels. No matter how anxious I feel, I have to stay still. Rachel says any body language observed by a federal agent is admissible as evidence.
I’ve already caught the FBI woman handling our case, Agent Adams, glancing at me multiple times. Waiting for me to fuck up, most likely. The fist in my pocket tightens as I meet her gaze from across the hall.
She stands at the opposite end, interviewing my dad’s watering-pot of an assistant. Her attention snaps from me to my father’s office the second her colleagues approaches it. I read her lips as she excuses herself and strides forward, joining her fellow agents.
“Mr. Everett?” she calls, pounding on the door. “FBI. We have a warrant for your arrest, and we’re coming in!”
The team bursts into his office, where I hear a small scuffle and then nothing. Except the sound of handcuffs.
One of the larger men on the team holds my dad’s bound hands behind his back as he shoves him out into the hallway, glibly stating his rights enroute to the elevators beside me.
The herd of agents accompanying Hugh huddle at his back as he faces me, teeth bared.
“How could you do this?” he demands, yelling over his attorney’s warnings to stay silent. “How could you do this to your own father ?”
I want to tell him I hadn’t planned on it—that I probably wouldn’t have if he hadn’t positioned Christian as his fall guy. But, of course, I can’t say any of that.
I hold his gaze as long as I can, knowing it might be the last time I ever get to see him up close. “I feel sorry for you,” I say, giving as much honesty as I’m allowed. “It didn’t have to be like this.”
He lunges at me, but barely manages to squirm before three agents steer him onto the elevators. He thrashes and shouts while the doors slide closed, his jeers incoherent when mixed with the agents’ threats and his attorney’s objections.
I expected the scene—almost exactly as it played out. So why do I still feel gutted? My fist tightens even more, finally ripping the pocket’s seam.
Goddamn it. I just want Juliet .
At my back, Ava claps with glee. “He’s furious ,” she exults, hailing another elevator. “It’s going to be perfect for pictures. I’ll go down now and make sure the paps have the correct story to go along with the images. Then I’ll shoo everyone off. Wait twenty minutes before you come down.”
With that, she disappears. Rachel steps up and shakes her head appreciatively. “Absolutely vicious . I like her. She’s straight, though, right?”
I blow a deep breath out of my nose, exasperated. “Afraid so.”
She shrugs and goes back to her phone. Agent Adams finishes murmuring to her colleagues and sends the rest of them down in the next available elevator before rounding on us.
“Mr. Everett,” she says, clipping over to us. “Ms. Black. I think we’re done here. I’ll be in contact with you about your testimony for the trial, though these cases typically take a few months to reach the judge’s desk. Oh, and, Mr. Everett, we received your notarized affidavits shortly before our raid.”
I start to open my stupid mouth and ask what the fuck she’s talking about, but Agent Adams pulls two pieces of Stryker & Sons stationery out of her jacket.
Rachel holds up her hand, halting me and stepping forward. “Give me those.”
She grabs the copies from the agent’s hand and reads them, turning each over twice before pushing them into my chest and casting me a shut-the-hell-up look.
“Yes,” she tells Agent Adams, “I assume that means…”
Their conversation fades into the background while I read the documents as quickly as possible, my eyes flying from the sworn statements to the signatures beneath them.
Grayson Stryker , one says.
And the other, clear as day— Juliet Rivera .
Their names, each signed under… well, a very creative version of the truth.
They both testified that I approached them about my new venture, G&C Capital, before I took home the tainted Everett Alexander books. Grayson claimed I told him between our meetings. Juliet stated that she was informed while we rode the elevator together?—
None of it is entirely true. But they signed their names to this carefully crafted narrative. For me .
I scan the date on each affidavit. Today.
That’s where she’s been all morning .
Getting to Stryker, explaining what they needed to do, convincing him to participate, crafting the statements, finding a notary to sign them… All of it must have taken every available second she had to get them sent out in time.
I’ve never worked harder to keep a smile off my lips. Dazed by nerves and gratitude, I barely manage a poker face as I tune back in to the agent and my lawyer.
“—able to keep G&C Capital running?”
Agent Adams meets my gaze instead of looking at Rachel.
“With those affidavits,” she says, “our agency will have no choice but to drop the pending investigation into G&C Capital and Mr. Everett’s personal holdings. So, yes, Mr. Everett will be able to keep G&C Capital. And its profits. Past and future.”
Fuck. Yes .
Rachel’s grip digs into my forearm, warning me to stay calm. Next to impossible when I want to pump my fist into the air and shout.
I can’t quite help myself. I grin as I nod. “Excellent. Thank you for taking them into evidence.”
She shrugs. “An officer of the court and one of the most influential CEOs in the country? We’d never assume two upstanding professionals were spinning lies.”
Jesus . I owe Stryker. And Juliet.
Everything .
Why would she do this for me? I wonder, watching while Rachel and Agent Adams exchange a handful of barbs.
I can’t think straight. I’ve never been through such a wide array of emotions in such a short span of time. Shock, dread, fear, joy, gratitude.
And then, right before my eyes, my attorney and the FBI agent swap phone numbers .
It’s a Valentine’s Day miracle .
Rachel actually blushes . Then she squares her shoulders and marches off, mumbling something about interviewing the assistant for herself.
Agent Adams snags my wide eyes, and—I swear—she winks . “This is this first case I’ve had where she’s representing someone involved. I’ve been wanting to ask her out forever. So I suppose it’s good luck this raid had to happen on Valentine’s Day.”
She puts both her hands into her pockets. “Oh,” she adds. “By the way…”
From her pants, the agent extracts a small blue Tiffany box.
“I found this,” she goes on, frowning down at the case. “It was in your father’s safe but it had a receipt with your name on it inside. I’d take that out of there before you pop the question.”
Unceremoniously, she tosses me the box. My numb fingers catch it. “Isn’t this part of your search or whatever?” I ask, not quite believing my luck.
She shakes her head. “We aren’t investigating you or seizing your assets.” Her eyes fall on the papers still pressed between my arm and my jacket. “Especially now. And the ring is clearly yours, not Hugh’s. So take it. Better for you to use it than for it to molder in some evidence bin for all eternity.”
I snap the case open, peering at the emerald-cut diamond and its shimmering frame of matching stones.
Maybe one day … I catch myself thinking as I fish out the receipt. If I wear Juliet down. If she falls in love with me .
My small ember of hope is a thing of the past. Now, a roaring blaze of determination takes its place, warming my insides.
I will get my ring on that gorgeous woman. Some day.
“Thanks,” I say, meaning it.
I slip the golden affidavits into my breast pocket and wrap my handkerchief around the ring case, hoping to keep it from getting scratched in my one remaining pocket. With a final glance at the past I thought would be my future, I make my way to the elevator.
I’ve seen enough.