Chapter 3
“Cleopatra” - Nova Twins
Maeve
“Would you watch where you’re going?” I sidestep to avoid colliding with a man who decided that blocking the path of a woman carrying two drinks was a good idea.
It’s absolutely ridiculous the way pedestrians behave these days.
I’d be safer walking through four lanes of traffic with my coffee order.
I ride the elevator to the fifth floor of the Wilson Foundation’s headquarters, where all of the executive suites are. Ever since the fiasco of HavenNet, our joint project with Luminara Tech, I’ve been spending more time here. Someone has to do damage control.
Several first-year interns are clustered outside the doors of the lift when they open. They immediately stop giggling and step back when they see me. I give them each a hard look. What are they even doing up here? They should be down on the first floor, filing something.
I approach Mrs. Rodriguez’s desk, and she smiles at me.
She’s been the executive receptionist since I was a toddler.
I hand her one of the coffees—nonfat latte with two pumps of cinnamon syrup—and she beams as though this isn’t our tradition.
Every morning I come in, I make sure to pick up her favorite drink.
“It’s so good to see you, Miss Wilson,” she says. I wonder if she knows she’s the only person who will think or say that to me today.
“You too, Mrs. Rodriguez. How’s Howie?”
She sets her coffee down and pulls her phone from her cardigan pocket so she can show me a picture of her French bulldog.
We chat about his recovery from surgery and how expensive vet care is these days, not that I would know.
I make a mental note to invent a reason to give her a bonus and hope she knows she’s the one bright spot in my workweek.
When I was little, I’d sometimes accompany my father to the office.
As the oldest child in our family, it was deemed essential that I learn the ropes from a young age.
The most important thing I learned at four years old was that Mrs. Rodriguez stocked the best candy in her desk drawers, and she always slipped me a handful whenever my dad wasn’t looking.
Behind me, the lift chimes its arrival, and I glance over my shoulder to see my father exiting it. Out of habit, I straighten as I turn to face him. Oliver Wilson III has that effect on people. My mother says he “commands a room.” He commands a whole lot more than that.
Mrs. Rodriguez does her best to scoot her chair back and stand as he approaches the desk.
She’s getting too old for this job—heck, she was already old when I was a kid—but she is an invaluable asset to our company, if only for that smile she gives everyone, even my diabolical sperm donor.
I stand between them in case he sees fit to take out his ever-surly attitude on her.
He doesn’t even glance in her direction, however. Instead, his eyes focus on me for several seconds before he swipes the coffee cup from my hand. “Thanks, sweetheart. I didn’t realize you knew I was coming in this morning.” He heads for the conference room where most of our board meetings are held.
I clear my throat and follow him. “I didn’t. What a pleasant surprise.” You get really good at lying through your teeth in the Wilson family.
“I thought I’d pop in for the meeting, see how you’re getting on without your old man here to oversee everything.” He halts in the doorway and turns around.
I come to a quick stop before bumping into him, then watch in horror as he lifts my drink to his lips. I know exactly what will come next.
“What in the bloody name of god is this?” He looks at the cup as though it has physically assaulted him.
“That was actually my coffee,” I say hesitantly.
More specifically, it’s an extra-large almond milk cappuccino with a 3:2 ratio of foam to milk, a split shot—half decaf, half single-origin espresso—a full pump of lavender syrup, a half pump of rose-cardamom syrup, and a half pump of Madagascar vanilla syrup.
“Who drinks this garbage?” He gives the cup one more disdainful look, then tosses it in the rubbish bin.
There’s no point in answering. The question was purely hypothetical. He walks into the board room and takes the seat at the head of the table.
I take a deep breath and steel myself for the next two hours.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, everyone has gathered, except for the senior liaison from Luminara Tech. Their compliance officer and public affairs director are already seated at the table, and my team is getting antsy. We don’t have all day.
I scan my list of invitees, looking for the name of the person we’re missing. I’ve just spotted it—Tao Chen—when someone speaks from the doorway.
“Sorry I’m late,” he says, taking the last empty chair. Only it’s not Mr. Chen. It’s Pierce.
I stare at him a beat too long. “Mr. Chen?”
He winces, but it’s as fake as my nails. “Food poisoning. I’m filling in.”
He expects me to believe that the CEO himself is filling in for the senior liaison? I wasn’t born yesterday. I can think of only one reason why Pierce would be here, and it’s to sabotage my plan to give HavenNet a rebrand before launch.
I narrow my eyes. “Let’s begin, then.”
He holds my gaze, those stupid eyes catching mine like bloody magnets. I can read the challenge in them. He thinks he can destroy me, but if he believes that, he has gravely underestimated Maeve Wilson.
I fight the sinking sensation that my entire day has been tanked by his arrival by reminding myself that, in a few short months, he’ll be out of my life for good and I’ll never have to look at that ridiculous jawline again.
I’ll simply pretend he’s as significant as the rubbish I narrowly avoided on the street this morning.
Annoying, disgusting, but ultimately inconsequential.
It’s a good plan. A brilliant plan, actually. Except that, only minutes into my presentation, I can already tell it won’t be enough.
“Transparency is the way to go,” Pierce says.
I take a deep breath through my nose, my nostrils flaring slightly.
“We need to distance ourselves from the havoc that Deirdre wreaked.” The woman took our program—the one that was supposed to be provided free of charge to the countries that need it most—and charged them for it before we even realized what was happening.
“People value honesty,” he says, eyes still fixed on mine.
My father grunts from the head of the table. He hasn’t said a word yet, but he’s cleared his throat enough times to have given an entire speech. He doesn’t believe in using his words when a simple cough will accomplish the same thing.
“We can’t afford to be associated with her,” I insist, not meeting my father’s eyes. He wants me to wrap up this disagreement and take charge, but what the hell am I supposed to do when our partner’s CEO refuses to accept my plan?
Pierce leans forward. “We can’t afford to wait any longer. Those people need our tech today, not a year from now.”
HavenNet is a global humanitarian project that delivers rapid-response technology to disaster zones and refugee camps.
The system includes solar-powered Luminara tablets, real-time translation apps, and drone-based signal relays that help displaced people connect with emergency services, reunite with loved ones, and access aid faster.
“If we don’t rebrand, the project will never be accepted, not after the scandal she created,” I say. How much longer is he going to push back on this? We must salvage the reputation of the initiative above all else. Otherwise, we limit the amount of good we’ll be able to do before we even start.
My father shifts in his chair, and I know this isn’t looking good. Under normal circumstances, I’d be able to handle Pierce and this meeting just fine. But with my dad sitting in, not to mention the tension from last night’s poker game, I’m finding it hard to maintain a calm presence.
We continue in the same vein for the next hour, and by the end of it, Pierce has managed to push back against all of my plans for a rebrand and make his own ideas sound like a symphony orchestra next to my street violinist. Is it possible he knew my father was going to be here when he chose to attend this particular meeting?
I wouldn’t put it past him, the bastard.
My father slaps his palms on the table and pushes to his feet. “I think that’s enough for today.” He dismisses the meeting without another word, his actions themselves words enough.
Everyone gets up from their seats, relief evident in the way they laugh and make small talk on their way out the door. Hardly any of them weighed in during the meeting, and I realize in hindsight how ridiculous it must have looked for Pierce and me to be at each other’s throats the entire time.
I begin gathering my things and my pride. After this, I’m going to need an afternoon at the spa. The knots in my back feel the size of boulders. I stand up, and that’s when I realize that I’m not alone in the room.
Pierce is leaning against the far wall, one ankle crossed in front of the other.
His suit today is navy blue, and he’s wearing a light-blue shirt underneath it.
He’s skipped a tie and instead left his top two buttons undone.
During the meeting, he put on a pair of the most obnoxious black-framed glasses—the kind some women go completely feral over—and has yet to take them off.
I shoot him a glare as I swipe my stack of folders into my arms. “I cannot believe you.” He doesn’t answer, so I continue. “You would actually rather see the entire project go down in flames than wait long enough to give HavenNet the start it deserves.”
I move around the table, intent on leaving without another word, but the cocky way he’s standing there—arms crossed, watching me—heats my blood to the boiling point.
“You know as well as I do that it’s better to get out in front of these problems before they can escalate,” I add.
“So why did you combat me on every single thing? You know I’m right. ”
He blinks but doesn’t move. If anything, he looks even more at ease than he did at first. “Are you done?”
I shoot him the dirtiest glare I can muster, really dig down in the basement of my soul for an old Halloween mask I can use. Then I push past him toward the door.
“I know what your problem is,” he says to my retreating back.
My feet stop before reaching the door. I turn and slam my folders onto the table, then cross my arms over my chest and tighten my glare. “Oh yeah? And what’s my problem, Pierce?”
His eyes narrow as he takes me in. I’m wearing a tweed skirt suit over a black polka-dot silk blouse with a tie in the same fabric. I look fucking fantastic, so let him look all he wants.
He slowly drags his gaze back up and settles it on my face. “You haven’t been laid in a long time.”
I scoff to cover the sudden heat billowing in my core. How dare he? No, seriously, how dare he? “I have a boyfriend. I get laid plenty.” I emphasize the last word even though it’s not true, because this prick needs to understand that he doesn’t know everything.
“Let me rephrase.” Pierce finally pushes away from the wall, then comes to stand mere inches from me, mimicking our pose from last night—him towering over me, me looking up at him. It’s nothing but a power play, and you know what? Fuck him.
He leans in even closer, and I catch a whiff of bergamot. He smells like a fifteen-thousand-dollar Italian suit, which I suspect is what he’s wearing. His voice drops, smooth as whiskey, his tone hushed like we’re sharing secrets. “You haven’t been properly laid in a long time.”
I bark out a laugh that sounds too forced. “What would you know about how often or how well I get laid?” I’ll humor him, but only because the other alternative is to strangle him, and that would not look good for HavenNet.
He shrugs but doesn’t back away. “I recognize the signs.”
My mind immediately whirls, trying to figure out what signs he could possibly be referring to, but then I remind myself that Pierce St. James is a weasel and is only trying to mess with my head. “Fuck you.”
A tiny smile makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “If you ever want to, just say the word.”
“Ew.” I wrinkle my nose. “I’d rather impale myself on a spike, thank you.”
“Mine’s open for business.” He drops a significant gaze to his pants.
“You’re disgusting.”
Something happens to his eyes then. They go kind of soft, and for a second I wonder if I’ve hurt his feelings, but the smile is still in place, so probably not. Besides, the man is a St. James. You’d need a fucking lorry to hurt them.
“Well,” he says, his voice as soft as caramel, “whenever you’re ready to be laid by a man who actually knows what he’s doing, you know where I live.”