52. Brian
CHAPTER 52
Brian
“It’s a custom desk,” Trent says, his hand gesturing lazily toward the massive piece of furniture. We’re all seated at the far end of the conference room—me, Mark, Zac, and Trent—waiting as he continues, like the world hinges on this piece of wood.
Or the future of our partnership.
His voice drips with admiration as he gives it a lingering glance.
I clasp my hands, offering an appreciative nod. “It’s exceptional.”
“It reeks of shrimp,” Trent mutters, completely deadpan.
I stifle a laugh, barely holding it together. “I’m really sorry about that,” I murmur low, clearing my throat. “Had a lot on my mind.”
His gaze sharpens. “I counted eight.” The flatness of his tone makes it clear he’s not joking. “Did I get them all?”
Honestly, I have no idea. I mindlessly ate as Harrison’s kids practically force-fed me, insisting I needed to eat.
But since we’re about to forge one of the biggest business alliances in the western hemisphere, I can’t exactly say that. Instead, I clear my throat. “There might be one or two still lurking in the cigar box.”
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose as Zac, as casual as ever, leans back and asks, “Cohibas?”
“Mayan Sicars,” Trent mutters, shaking his head as if he’s still mourning their loss. “Hand-rolled. Aged to perfection. And now...” He lets out a long, frustrated breath. “Shark chum.” His gaze refocuses, sweeping across the table. “But I’m sure that’s not why you’re all here.”
Mark leans forward, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get the spotlight off our company. Permanently. There’s no shortage of news out there, so why not shift the focus?”
Trent arches a brow, intrigued. “And you have ideas on where we should aim our public opinion scepter?”
“Absolutely,” I say definitely.
Trent’s smirk grows, eyes flicking between us. “And you’re offering to pay for this service?”
Mark shakes his head. “No, we want to buy the company outright. Quietly. That is, if we can reach an arrangement.”
Zac slides a small note across the table, the number bold enough to make Trent’s eyes flicker with excitement. The corner of his lips twitch, the hint of a grin threatening to break through before he schools his expression. “What kind of arrangement are we talking about?”
“You stay on as CEO, remain the public face. To the world, nothing changes. Behind the scenes, this piece of the puzzle falls under Excelsior Centurion,” Mark says, his voice steady.
Trent leans back in his chair, weighing his options, dragging out the silence in what can only be described as a bullshit power move. The kind that would work if we weren’t already three steps ahead. But the quiet stretches long enough for Mark to elbow me in the ribs. Hard.
I clear my throat, ignoring the sharp sting. “I’ll throw in a case of those cigars you’re so fond of,” I say, my voice even, though I’m breathing through the pain.
Fucker always hits the same damned spot.
Finally, Trent sucks in a breath and waves his hand, all nonchalance. “If you want to buy my media company for twice its worth, bygones.” His brow quirks, amused. “Anything else?”
I lean forward, my voice low. “Roxana Voss.”
His grin fades, but only slightly. “I already fired her.”
“Fired doesn’t even scratch the surface of what I need.”
“I feel a public shaming coming on,” he smirks.
“And I want to know how she found Angi faster than my team could.”
“You think Roxie Voss found your wife’s sister?” Trent’s lips curl into a slow, sly grin. “That walking migraine has the patience of a two-year-old and the intellectual depth of cheese. It takes every brain cell she’s got just to figure out which end of her phone to speak into.” He shakes his head, amused. “Wyld Richards did the digging.” Trent presses a buzzer on his desk. “Send him in.”
“Yes, sir,” a sultry voice replies from the speaker.
A second later, Wyld steps into the room, his eyes locking onto mine, and I see it—the flash of panic, his body frozen like prey staring down a predator.
And I don’t blame him. He should be scared out of his mind, especially with Zac’s arm the only thing standing between my fist and his throat.
Slowly, Wyld turns to take a seat. Trent’s voice cuts through the air, sharp as a blade. “Did I say you could sit?”
Wyld jerks upright. “No. No, sir,” he stammers, standing in place.
“Tell us how you found Juliana Spenser’s sister. And if you leave out a single detail, I’ll let the bookies I’ve been holding off get their pound of flesh.”
Wyld panics, vomiting every detail in under sixty seconds. “Her arrests are public. She’s hit almost every precinct—5th, 19th, you name it. I offered a thousand bucks to every dealer from here to the Adirondacks to send her my way, promise her free hits for life.”
By now, both Mark and Zac are on edge, ready to grab me because they know if I get a hold of him, I’ll end this.
But instead, my voice drops to a quiet, chilling calm. “She had enough drugs in her system to drop a man twice her size. She was hanging by a thread. If I press this with the DA, you’re looking at twenty to life for attempted murder.”
Wyld’s hands shoot up in surrender, eyes wide. “That was Roxie, not me. I just brought her in! Roxie wanted her primed for the big reveal at the awards show. I swear, it wasn’t me. I’ll do anything you want.”
“I know you will,” I say, my voice a low, dangerous rasp. “What I want is everything you’ve got on Roxie. Oh, and I want your left ear.”
“Wha—” He barely gets the word out before Mark and Zac are on him. Zac pins him with brute force, and Mark moves in fast. The tag snaps onto his ear with a sharp metallic click, and Wyld lets out a guttural scream.
“OW! Fuck! What the hell did you just do?! ”
I watch him squirm, gripping his ear like it’s been ripped clean off, his face pale from the shock. “Tagged you, Wyld. Like the sewer animal you are. Now we know exactly where you are at all times. And the second you even think about running or screwing us over, I’ll make sure every single one of your bookies knows how to find you, too.”
He’s still wailing, cradling his ear like a baby, the sound grating on my nerves.
Honestly, it’s just an ear tag, like a piercing with a big ass earring. My vote was for a Prince Albert, but thankfully, the Bishop men drew the line at getting anywhere near his disease-ridden junk.
Mark and Zac’s exact words? Fuck no.
Trent snaps a finger right in his face. “You’ve got one hour to hand over everything you’ve got on Roxana—ranked by what’ll cause the biggest headlines.”
By mid-afternoon, both traditional and social media are flooded with stories about Roxana Voss, but not for the reasons she ever imagined. Instead of making headlines as a star reporter, she found herself at the center of them.
In fact, the biggest splash came from none other than Alfred Walsh, famously known as Scoop, with a headline that sent shockwaves across every platform:
From Byline to Mugshot
The Fall of Roxana Voss: Journalist Turned Crimina l
Scoop sits proudly at his desk, a smug grin on his face as Anabelle and Felix hand out slices of cake. Apparently, Roxana’s downfall has been cause for celebration for everyone. Scoop catches my eye from across the room, holding up a slice in silent offering.
I shake my head. With Jules gone, eating is no longer a pleasure but a necessity. A chore. Every breath without her feels like a slow, torturous ache, and food has lost all its flavor.
Nothing feels right without her here.
“You’re missing out,” a familiar voice chirps behind me.
I turn and find Taylor, her smile as wide as Long Island. “You’re speaking to me again?” I ask.
She shrugs, casually. “Trent told me what you did.”
“Trent?” I raise a brow. “Is this future husband number three hundred?”
“Not necessarily.” She pauses, thinking it through while savoring another spoonful of pure frosting. “For once in my life, I’m taking things slow. Though, he is cooking me dinner tonight.”
“The fire department will breathe a collective sigh of relief it’s not you,” I tease.
She giggles, nudging my arm. “I only almost burned the building down once.”
“Hey,” I nudge her arm right back. “Good for you,” I say, my tone softening. “You’ve been an amazing friend to Jules. You deserve the best. And if Trent gets out of hand?—”
“Don’t worry,” she grins. “I’ve got a shrimp tail guy on speed dial.”
Our laughter fades, leaving a stretch of silence between us.
Taylor, still smiling, takes another bite of cake. “You really should try it,” she says, popping another forkful of icing into her mouth with a playful grin. “Buttercream with a hint of peach. Gee, I wonder who picked it out.”
I laugh, but it’s hollow, the ache still clawing at me. “Jules should be here. She earned that Trailblazer Award. And she was robbed of the chance to bask in it.” My eyes catch Trent glancing our way—or more accurately, at Taylor. “Looks like someone’s here for you.”
She glances over and smiles. “That’s my ride.”
“Then I’d better let you go.” The words catch in my throat, and I pause, feeling the weight of my heart grow heavier with every second. “But if you see Jules… tell her—” I hesitate, the ache sharpening. “Tell her I miss her.”
She blinks, then smirks. “No.”
My brow furrows, confusion flaring into what the actual fuck irritation. “No?”
“Look, poor little rich boy, I’m not your secretary.” Her grin stretches wider as she pulls me into a soft, teasing side hug. She whispers, “Go tell her yourself.”