Chloe
Tristan Thorne stands close beside me, the warmth of his body and his scent—cedar and spice, like a mulled wine on a winter’s day—filling my nostrils.
For a second, I’m thrown for a loop. I chose to stand at the bar on purpose, away from the main crowd and the dance floor with my good ear facing outward toward the room. I needed to be able to hear as well as possible.
He spoke from the wrong side. I almost didn’t hear him, and I certainly didn’t make out his words. It was his scent that alerted me to his proximity, not his voice.
The usual panic rises in me, the same jittery feeling I get every time I think my secret might have been discovered. I cover it up quickly, irritation prickling inside me at the unwelcome jolt of vulnerability.
I give him an arch look, doing my best to somehow look down at him despite the fact that he’s at least six-three. “Excuse me?”
He grins, showing even white teeth. “It’s nice of you to show such respect to Thorne Enterprises. Are you going to congratulate him later?”
Ah. He’s talking about his father, and that stupid lifetime achievement award. “Of course,” I say smoothly. “You know, they usually hand out those sorts of awards to companies that have hit their peak, Thorne.”
“Is that so?” He won’t lose that fucking smirk.
“It’ll be all downhill from here on out,” I say, glancing back toward the bartender. I can’t turn to the crowd or I won’t be able to hear what he’s saying. Besides, I ordered a gin and tonic a minute ago, and I could really use the drink.
“And let me guess, MediaSphere is waiting in the wings?”
“We’re on our way up,” I reply. “You’re on your way down. Don’t take it personally.”
Through my good ear, I can hear him chuckle. He definitely doesn’t seem to be taking it personally. “Does that sort of confidence usually play well with investors?”
“You have no idea how well. Our stock has never been this high.” At least that’s true. We’ve had an excellent month, and the past fiscal year was our best on record.
“And have you noticed Thorne Enterprises’ performance?”
“I have.” The bartender finally returns with my drink, and I give the lime on the rim a squeeze before lifting the glass to my lips. “You know the market should be read in terms of growth, right? You’ve been on a plateau for a while now.”
“There’s an ebb and flow to these things.”
“Of course there is.” I set the glass down on the counter, my gaze fixed on the illuminated liquor bottles behind the backbar. “But I don’t see ebbing or flowing with Thorne Enterprises. I see the calm before the storm.”
“And MediaSphere? You’re growing, are you?”
“Absolutely,” I say. “And we’re projected to keep going.”
“I’d like to see that.”
I glance back at him. “Why is that?”
He shrugs, still wearing that crooked, dangerously charming smile. “Maybe if the family business grows, the Dawson ice queen will finally crack a smile.”
I snort under my breath, the kind of sound my mother would hate, and turn my attention back to my drink. “Oh, give me a break.”
“What? I haven’t seen your dimples in a while, you know. They only show up when you smile.”
“Maybe that’s just because I don’t find you funny.” I take a small sip of my drink. “Did that ever occur to you?”
“Huh,” he says, unimpressed. “I’ll take that under consideration.” There’s a pause, in which he leans on the bar. Clearly, he’s not intending to go anywhere. “You’re wrong about Thorne Enterprises, by the way.”
“Am I?”
He nods. “Generally speaking, yes, our company has been in the doldrums. But you don’t see the whole picture. You’re not on the inside.”
“And you’re here to give me some insider knowledge, are you?” I say dryly. “Just in case I’m looking for stock options?” The idea is laughable. My father would never speak to me again if he knew I had stock in Thorne Enterprises.
“Sure.” Tristan gestures to get the bartender’s attention, and the man appears promptly. “Whiskey, neat.”
He settles himself against the bar, his body close to mine. Close enough that all of my senses are on alert, keenly aware of him.
He’s unfairly handsome. All of the Thorne brothers are tall and good-looking, but Tristan is almost criminally attractive. He has short, dark hair that he keeps perfectly groomed, and his eyes are blue, like a calm ocean.
My grandfather loved fishing. When I was little, he used to take me out on his forty-foot trawler to sink lines and reel in wriggling sea bass. He always warned me about the ocean, as if he was a hardened sailor rather than a hobbyist. I guess the waters don’t discriminate.
When the sea is calm, don’t be fooled, he told me. In a few days’ time, a storm will come through, and the waves won’t hesitate to sink you.
I’ve known Tristan since we were in business school together, studying for our MBAs at Wharton. He’s always been cocky and confident like this, and I hate how my breath catches as he leans closer.
I meet Tristan’s gaze and see it for what it is: a calm mask, hiding an existential threat.
“So tell me,” I say, doing my best to keep the strain out of my voice. “What’s Thorne Enterprises’ lifeboat?”
“We’re closing on an overseas distribution deal.” He shrugs languidly, smirking. “Won’t be public for another quarter, but it’s locked in.”
“What kind of distribution?”
“Streaming.” The bartender slides a whiskey in front of him, and he takes a slow sip. “Network TV is dying. Streaming is the only growth segment left, and we’re moving into new markets next year.”
I frown, not sure whether to believe him. “Which markets?”
“Asia, mostly. The regulatory side is further along than anyone outside the room knows.”
I narrow my eyes. We’ve been in direct competition since Wharton, even more so now that we’re high-ranking in our families’ respective rival companies. When he’s on the verge of success, it means I’m facing a challenge.
“And the content?” I raise an eyebrow, pretending to be unconcerned. “Localizing for that many regions isn’t something you can stand up overnight, even with Thorne’s resources.”
“Oh, we have the resources,” he replies, his eyes flashing. His voice drops, and he angles his body closer to mine. “Trust me. This is airtight.”
I look away from him and clear my throat, both pissed at him and, against my will, drawn to him. He knows exactly what he’s doing, I’m certain of it. I wonder how often he uses that frustrating charm to get what he wants.
A voice beside me breaks the tension, and I turn gratefully to its source. It’s a man I recognize, Dean Rafferty Junior, a son of my father’s friend and longtime colleague. He doesn’t pull at me like Tristan does, but he gives me the perfect opportunity to turn away.
“Miss Dawson?” he asks hesitantly. “Would you like to dance?”
Startled, I glance at the dance floor. I hadn’t even noticed the shuffling of the dancers’ feet, or the band striking up its tune. I compose myself quickly, then nod, giving him a broad smile.
“Of course, Dean. It would be my pleasure.”
I let him take my hand, and he guides me away from the bar. I don’t look back at Tristan, but his irritation prickles in the air behind me.
Good. Now he’s the one who’s pissed off. Let him chew on that for a while.
Dean leads me to the dance floor, and we begin a slow waltz alongside the other pairs. He moves a little awkwardly, and won’t meet my gaze as we circle past the band.
“I really admire your father,” Dean says. “He’s a great man.”
I resist the urge to roll my eyes. This wasn’t entirely unexpected. It’s something I’ve experienced plenty of times before.
MediaSphere is something of a family business: my father and his two daughters, working together. Both my sister and I have had our share of would-be admirers whose eyes were actually on our dad.
“You’re lucky you have his footsteps to follow,” Dean adds, and this time, I can’t help rolling my eyes. He doesn’t seem to notice. He just keeps on chatting, full of praise for Vincent Dawson. He never does meet my gaze.
By the end of the dance, the annoyance Tristan stirred up has reached a full boil. Tersely, I thank Dean for his company, then turn back to the bar to get myself a glass of water and cool my head.
My entire life, I’ve felt like I was on a path that was decided for me before I even existed. I can’t deviate from this track.
I can’t fight my way past the legions of my father’s admirers to find one person, anyone, who will see me for who I am.
As I set the glass of water down on the bar, I can’t help scanning the crowd for Tristan Thorne. He’s standing near his family’s table on the other side of the room, and when my eyes land on him, I’m startled to realize that his are already on me.
We lock eyes across the large space, both of us going still for a second or two. Then I pull my attention away and go to find my family.