Chapter 2
Two
Alex
My portfolio is open on one screen, the Summit Ridge acquisition file on the other, but I'm not looking at either of them. Instead, I'm staring out at Park Avenue forty stories below, as tiny early morning commuters thread the sidewalks and distant sirens add to the hum of the traffic.
Vicky's birthday was yesterday, and I didn't make it home.
Rita's fault.
As if my thoughts summon her, she raps twice on my door, then lets herself in.
“Good morning, Alex.”
I’m certain her pencil skirt is the shortest yet, her white silk blouse tight, not fully occluding the black bra hinted at beneath.
She smiles as she struts across my office, long legs in high heels deliberately crossing with each stride, like a runway model.
She has the looks and probably the experience, even if it isn’t on her résumé.
Her makeup is immaculate as always, probably hiding shadows under her eyes after our session last night.
We’d been at my apartment, working into the small hours.
I lean back in my chair, rest my elbows on the arms, and steeple my fingers. If she notices my disapproval, she doesn’t show any signs.
“Mr. DeLuca has requested a lunch meeting, and there’s a table booked at—”
“Rita.”
Despite my tone, she accepts my interruption calmly, tilting her head in polite expectation. “Alex?”
“Did I or did I not instruct you, very clearly, to mark March seventh in my calendar as Victoria’s birthday?”
She blinks twice, expression blank. It’s artfully done. “Not that I can recall. I’ll ensure it’s marked for next year.”
The lie is so smooth it almost has me doubting myself. But I’m certain I did. I wouldn’t have forgotten something like that.
Really? asks the part of me that hasn’t entirely lost its honesty.
Fair, I reply. I don’t shy away from talking to myself; there’s no one else I can trust to tell me like it is.
I let one eyebrow slowly rise, my stare fixed on Rita, waiting for her to squirm. But either she’s been my Chief of Staff for too long, or she’s just that good. She doesn’t quail, merely returns my gaze with frank openness, no guilt surfacing, as if she possessed no morality and little emotion.
In that, we’re well matched.
“A lunch meeting?” I say at last, irritated that I’ve had to speak before she did. “Did he say why?”
“He didn’t, but I presume to discuss the Summit Ridge acquisition.” She lays the first of three folders she holds on my desk. “I’ve collated the final drafts and—”
“I’ll look through them, but we covered everything last night.” I pause, considering. “On that note, cancel my five o’clock. I’ll be going home early.”
“Yes, Alex.” She allows for a note of surprise, but it’s deliberate and pointed.
Nothing Rita does is an accident. The clothing she chooses, the smiles she offers me, the omission of Vicky’s birthday from my calendar. The choice of red wine at midnight the night before, while we finished work.
The way she leaned in as she toasted our imminent success.
I glance at the time. Twelve minutes before my first meeting of the day. “What else do you have for me?”
“Our next project. We have a choice.” Her eyes glitter as she places the second folder on my desk. “Greenstone. Fourth-generation, family-owned energy business with far too much fat in its operations.” She lays the third folder on top. “Point Dynamics. Overleveraged but asset rich.”
I brush aside the top folder and pick up the one beneath.
Rita looks amused. “Point Dynamics is the lower-hanging fruit.”
“Yes, but it’s too boring.” I open the Greenstone folder, scanning the first page. “Besides, family-run organizations…”
“I thought you’d go for that.” She walks around my desk, leaning in to read over my shoulder, one soft, full breast pressed firmly against my arm. “You can never resist making it personal, can you?”
“I don’t know what you mean, Rita,” I murmur, turning the page without acknowledging her proximity. “This is strictly business.”
“Excellent work, Alexander.” DeLuca closes the Summit Ridge file, sliding it back across the table to me before picking up his fork and spiking a spear of asparagus. “There’s no way they can fight that. Now all we need is a signature.”
“They’re coming in at three. It’ll be signed by ten past.”
He gives a low chuckle. “I like the killer instinct in your eyes. You enjoy making them fold, don’t you?”
I reach for my water. It’s not wise to admit to anything with DeLuca; he’s a man who’s made a career of finding pressure points and squeezing.
He lets his amusement show at my non-answer, then sips his red wine.
“Your success is inspiring. More deals closed than any other acquisitions specialist. Partner at thirty-two. Most impressively, a one-hundred-percent close rate in the two years since then.” He toys with the stem of his glass, not bothering to hide that he’s studying me.
“You don’t like to lose, do you? And it hasn’t escaped our attention how you’ve achieved it. ”
I make a conscious effort to keep my expression neutral, wondering how much he knows. Everything’s been so carefully hidden. I cut a piece of my burrata, wiping it through the balsamic glaze. “Strictly legitimately, Marco.”
“We both know that’s not true.” His response comes too fast, but it’s said casually.
“Legally it is.”
A dry chuckle. “Yes, indeed. We wouldn’t want to dig deeper than that, would we?”
I allow a wry smile, admitting nothing, playing the game.
“It’s what’s caught the eye of more than just me, Alexander.” He’s gone still, eyes on me, food ignored.
I lean back in my chair, picking up my glass of sparkling water.
“Come now,” he says, “there’s no need to be defensive. I’m not judging when you’re making that much money for the company.”
I incline my head, both acknowledging that and emphasizing it.
“And doing very well for yourself along the way,” he continues. “In fact, we’ve decided to offer you a promotion.”
That makes no sense; he can’t. It would put me at his level. Besides, I’m too young. There are ‘rules.’
I let my disbelief through. “Managing partner at thirty-four?”
“Not exactly.” He leans back too, gestures with a hand, and a moment later the attentive but discreet staff clear our appetizers. I hadn’t finished my burrata, but I’m suddenly less hungry. His interruption is deliberately timed.
DeLuca lets the anticipation build as we wait for them to withdraw, then picks up where he left off. “What I’m offering you isn’t strictly within Northbridge Capital. It’s something… let’s say… broader.”
He’s being deliberately vague, but it only piques my interest. Money stopped being the point a long time ago. What I want is the room where the real decisions are made, and I’ve never quite been in it. “Go on.”
“The dead-man’s-shoes approach to promotion is too limiting for men like you. Rather than risk losing valuable individuals, there’s another way. A cross-company route, if you will.”
I raise an eyebrow. Not just a seat at the table. DeLuca’s implying a different table entirely. “Oh?”
He smiles at my interest. “Clearly, we’re only one part of Cadrion Strategic Holdings. Distinct from the risk advisory and tech corporations.”
I know all this. “Necessary separation for regulatory and political reasons.” Except he just said ‘cross-company.’
“Separation, indeed.” He makes a sound like that amuses him. “Take Armitage and Calder.”
“The law firm we use.”
“We have a… deeply aligned relationship with them.”
That was said with some weight. “How deep?”
He looks down at the table and taps the side of his wine glass with one fingertip. “Given that law firms must be legally distinct, officially, of course, they’re independent. Unofficially… let’s say interests converge.”
That, I was not aware of. Largely because it’s illegal. “Do please elaborate.”
“For appearances, we operate under Cadrion’s strategic direction—save for the law firm, of course—governed by their official board.
However, there’s also a shadow board, not on any org charts.
We’re more aligned than we appear.” He presses his lips together, regarding me.
“Given the… uh… flexibility you’ve shown, I assume this doesn’t make you uncomfortable? ”
Or in other words, you tell on us, we tell on you. “Keep going.”
But he doesn’t. He leans back in his chair while more staff arrive with our entrées, explaining the necessary pause. I cut a piece of venison loin, barely tasting it while I wait for him to continue.
He’s several mouthfuls into his filet mignon before he points his fork at me and speaks again.
“Let’s cut to the chase. More responsibility, more autonomy.
Results are what matter; methodology is flexible.
Oh, and we run some social events that will enable you to network.
Lean into the connections we have. Favors for favors, and so on.
” A pause. “We’ve been operating this way for some time, Alexander.
Quiet, efficient, and built on foundations of loyalty. ”
“That doesn’t sound like a board.”
“It’s larger. The Company is… more a society.”
The Company. I can hear the capitalization when he says the word. Such a harmless-sounding euphemism.
“There is a board.” His fork waves in the air. “But you’d come in at the… second tier, if you like. That lets us grow without constraints. I’m first tier, so you’d report to me, just as you do now.” He gives me a pointed look. “I’ll be the one sponsoring you.”
I take a sip of my water, giving myself time to think. “Why?”
“The key question, I suppose.” A shrug of one shoulder. “Influence, leverage, power. Money then flows easily enough. I assume you can see how that works.”
I could indeed. For starters, cross-company access would certainly accelerate the Greenstone deal, and that was based only on a preliminary read of the file.
“Let’s say I’m interested.”
“Of course you’re interested.”
I nod, conceding that one. “What do I do, just say yes right now?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll want you to meet Vincent and Antonio, two others at my level. But in essence, the decision’s mine.” He pauses, regarding me thoughtfully. “Do you only drink water?”
The segue catches me by surprise. “Not at all.”
“Good. A man with no vices is… well, it’s good to show a little humanity.” His fork waves at me again. “That private investigator fiancée of yours. Victoria Callahan, right?”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t remember telling him she was a PI. Must have, and forgotten.
“We encourage partners at our social events. Makes it more like family, don’t you agree?”
“Sure.” Utterly secondary to the power he’s offering me.
He hears the note in my voice. “I mean it, Alexander. We don’t offer these places lightly. A married man is a more stable one, and that’s important to us.” He nods to confirm his own words. “You’ll be tying the knot shortly, I presume?”
We haven’t even set a date. “Of course.”
“Good, good.” He lifts his wine glass, toasting me. “To your success, then.” His eyes narrow. “It reflects on mine, and I don’t say that lightly.”
“Vicky?”
The house is quiet.
I throw my keys into the bowl on top of the dresser, noting hers are absent. Car’s not in the garage, then.
Damn. What’s the point of leaving work on time for once, if she’s not even here?
I suppose I could’ve called. Or sent a WhatsApp. But I wanted to surprise her. It would’ve neutralized the birthday problem. I haven’t forgiven Rita for that.
Perhaps I’ll cook for her. That would go a long way. I can get groceries delivered and have dinner ready for when she returns. A lobster pasta, perhaps. She’s always been a fan.
I remove my suit jacket as I walk into the kitchen, laying it over a chair. There’s a faint smell already present, slightly off. Greasy. It takes me a moment to track it to the oven, where a half-cooked Beef Wellington sits in its own puddle, the duxelles disintegrating and the pastry limp.
I pull it out, placing it on the stove top with a frown. It’s not like her to leave a mess.
Shit. She cooked that for me—for us—and didn’t even finish it.
That’s fine. I’ll clean it up, make dinner, open a nice bottle to celebrate a deal closed and a promotion.
This whole palaver will be forgotten in no time, especially with a long weekend birthday trip to the Bahamas.
That will set things right. The promise of it, anyway. Maybe not this weekend, but one soon.
I make my way upstairs, unbuttoning my shirt as I go, seeking clothes more suitable to cook in than my custom white poplin.
There’s a strange scent here, too, delicately floral.
The bathroom door is open, the tub full.
It’s such an unusual sight that I pause in the threshold, staring at it in confusion.
A towel lies crumpled on the floor; that’s not like Vicky either.
Then I notice the lingerie on the bed, and the white sheet of paper in the center. A small shape rests on it, catching the light.
I know before I cross to the bed with quick strides.
Her ring. She’s left her goddamn ring.
No… she’s left me.
A quick search of the walk-in closet, hangers missing, her drawers mostly empty. I slam the last one shut, biting back a curse, and reach for my phone.
It rings twice, then goes to voicemail. I know damn well it takes six rings before her voicemail kicks in; she rejected my call.
I send her a WhatsApp. Vicky, where are you?
And the message sits there with one grey tick. Sent, not delivered.
I stare at my phone.
Just that afternoon, DeLuca had been clear: my future career was dependent on me being married. And I’d told him we would be, soon.
That is now looking a lot less likely. My fiancée has left me, and blocked my number.
Fuck.