Chapter 11 #2
"You're brilliant at numbers," I continue, walking right up to the desk. "You can analyze a spreadsheet until it begs for mercy. But you are terrible at people. You think everyone operates on logic. You think if you just work harder, if you prove the math, the board will respect you."
"Ivy, get out."
"No."
I slam my phone down on top of his stack of due diligence reports. "Look at it."
He stares at the phone. Then he looks at me. "What is this?"
"It's a miracle," I say. "Look."
He picks up the phone. He swipes through the first image. His brow furrows. "This is... a villa. In St. Barths."
"Keep scrolling."
He swipes. He sees the LLC registration Mason pulled. He sees the link to Apex Capital. He swipes again. He sees the forum post from Royce_The_Man joking about the 'Boy Wonder losing his marbles.'
A suffocating silence descends on the room, sucking the oxygen right out of the air.
I watch his face. I watch the confusion morph into realization, and then into a cold, hard fury that makes the temperature in the room drop.
"Royce," he whispers. It's not a question. It's a curse.
"Royce Aston," I confirm. "He's leaking the rumors. He's driving the price down so Apex can buy the Holloway Group out from under you. And he sold his loyalty for some Italian marble and a new pool."
Brooks looks up at me. His eyes are dark, intense. "How did you get this?"
"I asked my partner to make a call," I say. "We know people. People who are very good at finding things that rich men try to hide."
He stands up. He walks around the desk. He stops in front of me, gripping the phone like a lifeline.
"You did this?" he asks. "After I kicked you out? After I told you that you were just a professional bridesmaid?"
"I'm a fixer," I remind him, crossing my arms to keep my hands from shaking. "And if you lose the vote, you have no reason to honor our agreement. I'm not doing this for you, Brooks. I'm doing it so you don't sue me."
He looks at me. He sees right through the lie.
A smile begins to form on his lips. It's not the polite smile he gives his mother. It's not the shark smile. It's something new.
It's predatory, yes, but it's shared. It's the look of a general who just realized he has a nuclear weapon.
"This kills him," Brooks says softly. "This kills Royce. If I take this to the board, if I show them he's in bed with Apex, he's out. He's ruined."
"Not just ruined," I say, tapping the phone screen. "Humiliated. He's bragging about it on a golf forum, Brooks. He thinks you're stupid. He thinks he's untouchable."
"He's wrong."
"So," I say. "What's the play? Do we email the board? Call a meeting?"
Brooks shakes his head. The exhaustion falls off him like dead weight, replaced instantly by a sharp, lethal energy.
"No," he says. "We don't email. That gives him time to spin it. We do this in person. Tonight."
"Tonight?"
"The board is having a dinner," Brooks says. "At the club. Informal. Spouses included. Royce will be there. His wife will be there."
He looks at me, his eyes gleaming.
"How fast can you act like a fiancée who just found out her beloved is being betrayed?"
I smile. "Brooks, I can cry on command. I can throw a drink with ninety percent accuracy. What do you need?"
"I need you to be charming," he says. "I need you to get Mrs. Aston talking about her renovation. In front of the chairman."
"I can do that."
"And then," Brooks says, his voice dropping, "I need you to stand back and watch me burn him to the ground."
"With pleasure."
He reaches out. He grabs my hand, the one I used to slam the phone onto his desk. He squeezes it.
"Thank you," he says.
"Don't thank me yet," I say, my voice a little shaky. "Wait until we survive dinner."
"We'll survive," he says. And this time, he says "we" like it means something. Like we're a unit.
He turns back to the desk, grabbing his laptop. "I need to call legal. I need to get these IP addresses verified. Stay here."
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
"Good." He pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. "And Ivy?"
"Yeah?"
"You were right about the scone."
I grin. "I'm always right, Taylor. You should put that in a memo."
He laughs, and the sound fills the library, chasing away the shadows of the morning.
I sit down in one of the leather armchairs, pulling my legs up under me. I watch him work. I watch him direct his legal team, his voice crisp and authoritative. I watch him turn the tide of the war.
And as I sit there, plotting the downfall of a multimillionaire I barely know, I realize Savvy was right.
I am totally gone for him. And the scary part? I think he might be gone for me, too.
The dinner at the Southampton Beach Club is a quiet affair, which means it is terrifying.
Twelve people. One long table. Candlelight flickering inside hurricane lamps. The rhythmic, soothing sound of waves crashing in the distance, providing a soundtrack for the execution.
Royce Aston is sitting three seats down from us. He is wearing a white dinner jacket and looking smug, like a cat that has eaten the canary and also stole the canary's retirement fund. His wife, Bitsy, is next to him, wearing enough diamonds to sink a small yacht.
I am wearing black. It felt appropriate for a funeral.
"Relax," Brooks murmurs against my ear as the waiter pours the Sancerre. "You're vibrating."
"I'm anticipating," I whisper back, keeping my smile fixed for the benefit of the room. "When do we strike?"
"Wait for the soup course."
The soup arrives. Lobster bisque, rich and smelling of sherry.
I pick up my spoon. I glance at Brooks. He gives a microscopic nod.
I turn to Bitsy Aston.
"Bitsy," I say, pitching my voice to carry enough to reach the chairman, who is sitting opposite us. "I simply love your bracelet. Is it new?"
Bitsy preens, holding up her wrist to catch the candlelight. "Oh, thank you, darling. Royce surprised me with it just last week. An early anniversary gift."
"He's so generous," I coo. "And I heard you're renovating? Someone at the salon mentioned you bought a gorgeous place in St. Barths."
Royce freezes. His spoon hovers halfway to his mouth. His eyes dart to me, wide and alarmed.
"Oh, yes!" Bitsy beams, completely oblivious to her husband's sudden paralysis. "A villa near the harbor. We're having it completely redone. The design team is marvelous. 'Azure Horizons.' Have you heard of them?"
The table is polite, quiet. No one knows the name.
Except Brooks.
"Azure Horizons?" Brooks repeats. His voice is calm, conversational. But I know him. The shark is breaking the surface. "Isn't that the boutique subsidiary of Apex Capital?"
The chairman looks up. "Apex?" he repeats, the name landing like a grenade in the center of the centerpiece.
Royce drops his spoon. It clatters loudly against the china, a gunshot in the silence.
"I—I'm not sure," Bitsy stammers, sensing the shift in the air but not understanding the math. "Royce handles the bills. He got us such a wonderful deal on the renovation."
"Did he?" Brooks asks.
He reaches into his jacket pocket. He doesn't look at Royce. He looks at the chairman. He pulls out his phone and slides it across the white tablecloth.
"Funny you should mention Apex," Brooks says. "I was just looking at some diligence files. There is a fascinating overlap between Apex Capital's acquisition targets and our board's recent trading activity. Specifically regarding the shorting of our own stock."
"Now, see here, Brooks," Royce sputters, his face turning a dangerous shade of purple. "This is a private dinner. We don't discuss business at the table!"
"We do when the business is treason," Brooks says coldly.
The chairman picks up the phone. He puts on his reading glasses. He scrolls. He looks at the screenshot of the forum post. He looks at the LLC registration connecting the villa to the rival firm.
He looks at Royce.
"Royce," the chairman says, his voice quiet. "We need to have a chat. Outside."
Royce stands up, his chair scraping violently against the patio stones. "This is ridiculous! The boy is paranoid! He has a head injury! You're going to take the word of a... a concussed child over mine?"
"The boy," Brooks says, standing up slowly, towering over the table, "is the only reason you haven't been indicted yet. Walk away. Resign tonight, and maybe—maybe—we don't call the SEC."
Royce looks around the table. He sees the faces of his peers. He sees the shock, the judgment. He sees the end of his career.
He looks at me. His eyes are full of venom.
"You," he hisses. "You're the one. The wedding planner."
"Crisis management," I correct, taking a calm sip of my wine. "And it looks like you're in a crisis."
Royce opens his mouth to speak, but the chairman stands up. "Outside. Now."
They leave.
The table is silent. Bitsy looks like she might faint. A waiter awkwardly refills a water glass.
Brooks sits back down. He picks up his spoon. He looks entirely unruffled, as if he didn't just behead a man between the appetizer and the entrée.
"The bisque is excellent," he says to the table at large.
I watch him. He is terrifying. He is magnificent.
Under the table, his hand finds mine. His palm is warm, his grip firm. He interlaces our fingers, squeezing tight.
We won.
I squeeze back.
And for the rest of the meal, he doesn't let go.