Chapter 4
Ansel
Joshua, our regular driver, pulls up in our black luxury SUV.
Remy slides into the third row with Breck and me, while Damon and Enzo claim the middle captain’s chairs. When Joshua takes the first turn, she shifts closer, her thigh brushing against mine. Her perfume is floral with hints of jasmine, and I’m acutely aware of how my body reacts to her proximity.
She’s dressed for the client meeting in a charcoal pencil skirt that hits just above her knee, a cream blouse, and a blazer that hugs the curve of her waist. Professional. Appropriate.
My brain keeps noticing details I shouldn’t, like how the skirt reveals an extra inch of her thigh every time she moves, or the pale freckles that dust her collarbone where her blouse dips at the throat.
I force myself to focus on my tablet and the presentation we’re about to give.
Breck scrolls through his phone, making final adjustments to our meeting plans. “Remy, please tell me you looked at those specs I sent at midnight. I need someone to appreciate my insomnia.”
She smiles. “I did. The client’s current setup is almost embarrassingly outdated.” She pulls out her own tablet, fingers moving quickly across the screen. “Their firewall is from 2019, which is basically Jurassic in tech years. And their—”
She stops mid-sentence, her face going still in a way that I’m starting to recognize means she’s spotted a problem.
“What?” Enzo leans forward from his position by the opposite window.
“Hold on.” Her fingers fly faster now, pulling up files, cross-referencing data. The rest of us wait, the car’s engine humming beneath the sudden tension. “Oh, shit.”
My muscles tighten. Her reaction can’t be good. “Oh, shit? What is that supposed to mean?”
“There’s an error in the data retention timeline in the compliance section.
” She’s already making notes, her stylus scratching across the screen.
“It lists a ninety-day backup cycle, but their industry requires one hundred and eighty days minimum for regulatory compliance. If we present this as-is, we’re basically telling them we don’t understand their business. ”
Damon twists in his seat, irritation radiating off him. “The proposal went through three rounds of review. If there was an error, someone would have caught it.”
“Well, no one did.” Remy doesn’t look up from her screen. “Because I’m looking at it right now, and it’s wrong.”
“Maybe you’re misreading it.”
“I’m not.” She pulls up another document and compares the two side by side. “See? Their industry standard is clearly stated here. One hundred and eighty days. We promised ninety.”
I take her tablet, scanning the sections she’s highlighted. She’s right. Completely, unquestionably right. “How the hell did this get missed?”
“Does it matter?” Remy’s already drafting corrections. “We don’t have much time before the meeting. I can fix the slides, update the cost projections to reflect the additional storage requirements, and have everything ready before we get to Chicago.”
“You weren’t even responsible for this part of the proposal,” I point out.
Remy finally looks up. “I’m presenting this material. That makes me responsible for every word in it. I don’t stand in front of clients with work I haven’t personally verified.”
I wasn’t expecting that level of integrity, the way she takes ownership without being asked.
Damon makes a sound that might be a scoff. “Must be nice, being perfect.”
Remy purses her lips, but she doesn’t take the bait. She returns to her tablet, fingers flying as she rebuilds the compliance section from scratch.
The rest of the drive passes in relative silence, broken only by the tap of Remy’s stylus and the occasional question she asks about client preferences or technical specifications. She asks the kind of questions that make me realize she’s been paying attention.
Damon stares out the window, not saying a word. The tension coming off him fills the car.
For a second, he looks less angry than... lost. Like he’s watching something slip away and doesn’t know how to stop it.
Then he catches me looking, and the walls slam back up.
When we arrive at the private terminal, our jet is already on the tarmac. We’re crossing the tarmac when Remy pauses to thank Joshua for the drive, shaking his hand before catching up with us.
Breck leans close to me. “Damon said she liked to play the victim. Doesn’t look like it to me.”
I don’t respond, but the comment adds to the growing list of things that don’t match what Damon told us. The Remy I’ve seen takes responsibility for things that aren’t her fault, fixes problems without being asked, and handles Damon’s subtle digs with more grace than he deserves.
The flight attendant greets us at the stairs—a woman named Emily who’s been with our aviation service for years. “Good morning, Mr. Jacobs, Mr. Jacobs, Mr. Jacobs.” She smiles at the familiar joke about our names. “And welcome aboard, Miss—”
“Ray. Remy Ray.” Remy shakes her hand with genuine warmth. “Thank you for having me.”
“Can I get you anything once we’re airborne? Coffee, breakfast, champagne?”
“Coffee would be amazing, thank you. Black, if that’s not too much trouble.”
“No trouble at all.” Emily’s smile widens, like she wasn’t expecting the kindness from Remy. I realize the flight attendant is probably accustomed to the parade of models and socialites we’ve brought on vacations or day trips, women who see the staff as part of the jet’s amenities.
We settle into the cream leather seats with polished wood accents.
There’s enough space to work or sleep, depending on the flight’s purpose.
Damon immediately claims a window seat and pulls out his laptop, pointedly avoiding eye contact with Remy, and radiating energy that he doesn’t want to interact with her.
It seems like the feeling is mutual.
Remy takes a seat at the small conference table built into the cabin’s center, spreading out her tablet and the revised presentation materials. Within minutes, she’s deep in work mode, making final adjustments.
I should review my own notes for the meeting.
Instead, I watch her work, noticing small details.
She tucks a strand of copper hair behind her ear when she’s concentrating.
A slight furrow appears between her eyebrows when she’s problem-solving.
She mouths words unconsciously as she reads, like she’s testing how they’ll sound when presented.
Emily returns with coffee, and Remy looks up with a genuine smile. “Thank you so much. This is perfect.”
“My pleasure.” The flight attendant smiles warmly. “Let me know if you need anything else.”
After she leaves, Breck catches my eye and raises an eyebrow. He noticed, too. She treats everyone with the same respect, regardless of their position.
Damon described her as entitled, demanding, someone who looked down on people she considered beneath her.
The discrepancies keep piling up.
The client meeting is held in a glass-walled conference room on the thirty-second floor of Chicago’s newest tech tower. The view is spectacular, with Lake Michigan glittering in the afternoon light.
Breck handles the introductions with his usual charm, and I launch into the opening remarks about Jacobs Security’s track record and capabilities. Then, I turn it over to Remy for the technical presentation.
She stands, and the room’s energy transforms. She’s confident without being arrogant, knowledgeable without being condescending. She walks them through their current vulnerabilities, showing them exactly where they’re exposed without making them feel incompetent.
“Your infrastructure isn’t bad.” She pulls up a network diagram.
“It’s outdated. Think of it like living in a house built in 1995.
The bones are solid, but the locks are old, the windows are single-pane, and you definitely don’t have a security system that talks to your phone.
You’re not unsafe, but you’re not as protected as you could be. ”
The metaphor lands. I see it in how the chief financial officer nods, how the chief technology officer leans forward.
She’s good at this. Really good.
We’re ten minutes in when Damon interjects. “What Remy’s trying to say is that your current setup is a liability. You’re one breach away from a PR nightmare.”
Remy’s features don’t change, but I catch the tightening around her eyes. “Actually, their current setup is functional but not optimal. There’s a significant difference.”
“Semantics.” Damon waves a dismissive hand. “The bottom line is they need to upgrade immediately, or—”
“The bottom line is that they need to upgrade strategically,” Remy cuts him off, pulling up a color-coded timeline.
“A phased approach addresses critical vulnerabilities without operational disruptions. Phase one tackles authentication, where you’re most exposed.
Phase two handles network segmentation. Phase three modernizes your backup and disaster recovery systems.”
“Look, you can’t afford to wait,” Damon says.
“Fearmongering isn’t helpful.” Remy turns to him directly. “Yes, they need to upgrade. But scaring them into hasty decisions won’t build trust or deliver results.”
The chief technology officer nods slowly. “I appreciate that. We’ve been burned by vendors who promised the moon and delivered chaos.”
Damon opens his mouth again, clearly about to push back, and I interrupt him. “Remy is right. Our reputation is built on sustainable solutions. The phased approach is exactly how we’ve handled security overhauls for companies three times your size.”
Damon narrows his eyes, but he keeps his mouth shut.
The rest of the meeting proceeds smoothly.
Remy fields technical questions with ease, Breck handles the relationship-building, and Enzo jumps in when the conversation veers into infrastructure specifics.
By the time we shake hands and promise a follow-up within forty-eight hours, I’m confident we’ve secured the contract.
Back at the hotel, we all head through the lobby toward the elevators. Remy has her laptop bag slung over her shoulder, looking ready to disappear into her room.
“Hang on.” Breck turns to face the group. “We’re celebrating. I found a place downtown with decent whiskey and great steaks. Remy, you should come.”
Remy glances between us, and then her eyes land on Damon. “That’s kind of you, but I think I’ll pass. It’s been a long day.”
Damon’s entire body goes rigid beside me, but he stays silent.
“Are you sure?” Breck asks, and I can hear the genuine disappointment. “Because technically, you did most of the work. We just stood there looking handsome.”
“I’m sure.” She smiles. “You guys enjoy. I’m going to order room service and maybe take a bath.”
“I’ll walk you up.” Breck moves toward the elevators. “To make sure you get to your room safely.”
Damon makes a sound that might be a laugh or a scoff. “She can find her own room. She’s not a child.”
“It’s fine.” Remy’s already pressing the elevator button. “Really. Have a good night.”
Breck follows her anyway, and I watch them disappear into the elevator together. He leans in close, murmuring what I assume is a joke based on how her lips curve into an actual smile. And I’m surprised at the slight twinge of jealousy I feel.
When Breck comes back to the lobby, he announces, “She’s all set. Ordered enough room service to feed three people and looked genuinely happy about it.”
“Seriously?” Damon scoffs. “Who the fuck cares? She’s staying somewhere nicer than anywhere she could afford on her own. I’m sure she’s loving every minute of it.”
I don’t respond. She’s probably relieved to have the evening to herself.
Damon claps me on the shoulder, already heading for the exit. “Let’s get out of here. I need a drink after today.”
The restaurant is loud, expensive, and full of beautiful people. We get a booth in the back and order whiskey and steaks. The conversation flows like it always does, with old jokes and familiar dynamics.
After a couple of drinks, Damon keeps circling back to Remy. Small comments. Subtle digs.
“Did you see her correcting me in front of the client?” He swirls his whiskey. “She probably spent all night looking for that error so that she could swoop in and save the day.” Damon signals for another drink. “She’s trying to make herself indispensable. It’s all part of the game.”
“She found a legitimate problem and fixed it.” There’s an edge to Breck’s tone that is rarely there. “She did a good job today.”
“You’re defending her? Do you want to fuck her, too?” Damon’s laugh is harsh, but underneath it, I hear fear. “I can tell you right now, she’s not worth it. Trust me.”
The table goes quiet.
My hand tightens around my glass. “That’s enough.”
“What?” Damon throws up his hands. “I’m just saying—”
“I know what you’re saying.” I set my whiskey down carefully. “And I’m telling you it’s enough.”
Damon stares at me for a long moment, then shoves back from the table. “You know what? Fuck this. I’m going out. I’m going to find someone who actually appreciates my time.”
He’s already heading for the exit before any of us can respond.
“He’s scared,” Breck says after Damon’s gone. “You see that, right?”
“Scared of what?” Enzo’s voice is flat.
“Losing us. Remy’s brilliant. We’re all drawn to her. He sees himself getting pushed out.”
“That doesn’t excuse his behavior,” I tell my brothers.
“No. It doesn’t.” Breck finishes his drink. “But it explains it.”
Enzo and Breck exchange a look, then they stand simultaneously.
Breck gestures toward the exit. “We should probably follow him.”
“Go.” I wave them off. “Make sure he doesn’t do anything stupid.”
Then they leave, and I’m alone at a table with four half-finished steaks and four glasses of whiskey.
Normally, I’d be with them. Normally, a night like this would end with all of us at some club, Damon working his way through women who find his charm more appealing than I ever have. It’s what we do—blow off steam, keep things simple and uncomplicated.
But tonight, I’d rather be anywhere else.
I signal for the check.
Twenty minutes later, I’m at the hotel. I bypass my own floor and hit the button for Remy’s.
I tell myself I’m here to ensure her safety. To make sure she got settled okay. To thank her for saving our asses today with that presentation error. All reasonable, professional reasons.
But that’s not actually why I’m here.
My knuckles are an inch from the door when I stop.
What the fuck am I doing?
I’m standing outside her room at ten o’clock at night with no plan and no good reason to be here.
I lower my hand.
This is a bad idea. All of it.