Reckless Devotion (Billionaire Row #4)

Chapter 1

Jax: Beers tonight?

Chase: I have to work, unfortunately.

Jax: Wait, you mean you’re NOT just a figurehead who plays make-believe CEO??

Chase: I can rescind the offer to fund that new hypobaric training suite pretty quick, bud.

Jax: Please don’t, Teddy will cut my balls off.

Chase: That’s funny, I thought they already lived in her purse.

CHASE

My friends don’t see this side of me.

I had a vision ten years ago to build an empire. Dev Tech Inc. A group of companies that span across a web of subsectors. Military defense technology development and manufacturing. Intelligence, hypersonic systems, cyber warfare, remotely operated aircraft—the list goes on.

Threat detection software that will identify, locate, characterize, and report activities of every potential threat within a two-thousand-mile radius.

3D printing facilities that are advanced enough to print even the largest of aerospace components in a fraction of the time.

Armor that transmits vital signs and an exact location for special operatives anywhere in the world in real time.

And some so classified they will never be public knowledge.

And I’ve done it. I’ve nailed it. We dominate.

I was born into one of the wealthiest families in New York City.

The Walkers, royalty of Manhattan’s upper echelons.

My father is dead—may he burn in hell for all eternity.

My mother is beautiful, regal, and broken beneath it all.

The world sees us as the Ivy League American dream, and I do my part in keeping up the appearance.

But I know the truth: that growing up in my family was a house of horrors.

“Update me on the Onyx Fury bid.” I steeple my fingers in front of my sternum, gaze locked on the man before me.

One of many around an oblong, frosted-glass boardroom table, he glimpses down at his laptop and his lips roll ever so slightly in.

A minuscule movement that most wouldn’t notice, but I do and I categorize it with the abrupt efficiency of someone who learned to read people from an early age. Too early.

Anxiety. Because I’m focusing all of my attention on him, or because he’s concerned about our likelihood of winning this latest federal contract?

“We’ve completed the framework requirements, Mr. Walker. We expect to hear about phase two imminently.”

I nod slowly once, scrutinizing his face. The way his left eye twitches when he looks down at his laptop screen, even though I can see it reflected in his glasses and it’s nothing more than a blue desktop background. Just because I’m looking at him, then.

“Good, and the latest Blockchain sprint?” My gaze narrows in on the brunette woman in a thousand-dollar Armani skirt suit next to him—my head of research and development.

Elizabeth nods curtly and then begins delivering her report.

I listen for long enough to be satisfied and then turn my attention to the emails on the laptop in front of me.

This room is full of my most trusted senior execs.

We don’t waste time with pleasantries, or friendly chitchat about our weekends, but they know I have the utmost faith in their capabilities.

I don’t need to know about their cats, or their hobbies, or what kind of vacation they went on—that’s what I have Evelyn for.

Who clears her throat pointedly in the seat at my left, just loud enough so that she knows it will garner my attention, but not anyone else’s. When I look up, she pulses one blonde brow. Code for: I’m being a rude asshole.

“I find myself satisfied with our progress,” Elizabeth concludes.

“Thank you, Elizabeth.” I offer the woman my gaze, tracing an apathetic path back to Evelyn, who is hiding a smile by pressing a stray blonde hair back into the no-nonsense chignon at the back of her head.

Yes, I know what it’s called. You don’t grow up with a sister obsessed with hair, fashion, and makeup and not pick up a few things.

Emily, my baby sister and one of my closest friends.

A high-fashion model who moved to Milan three years ago to chase her dream.

And nailed it. I’m proud of her and glad she’s happy.

But honestly, it fucking sucks not having her around anymore.

With only three years between us, we were thick as thieves from day one.

We never even went through that bumpy stage as teenagers, which probably had a whole lot to do with us being too busy pitted against our father to fight each other.

I can’t say the same logic applied to my older brother Mason, but he’s a whole other can of worms.

Evelyn imbibes the silent message from my blank gaze and leaps in to take over.

She’s my chief operating officer, or “head of holding people’s hands” as I like to joke with her behind the sanctity of my office door.

She’s wickedly smart, and acts as the warm buffer to my cool business exterior, as well as handling the day-to-day operations.

She’s the one who knows what grade Elizabeth’s daughter is in, or the name of Tim’s pet parakeet, etcetera, etcetera.

She tells me what I need to know, because I understand a business is run by its people and they need to be cared for. I just simply don’t have time.

I work my ass off day and night to grow this organization.

My time as CEO is valuable, and needs to be conserved for leading us in cutting edge innovation.

Tech moves quickly, and if I so much as blink, we could fall behind.

That aside, I also have responsibilities outside of work that require my attention.

Galas, charity balls, openings, press appearances.

It’s been a part of my life since I was a child, but in recent years with my mother’s decline, I’ve taken over the brunt of it from her.

It’s not my favorite thing to do, but it makes her happy. So there is that.

And despite what I’m sure the people in this room think, I have a group of friends that are like family to me.

That’s where I get to be just me. Not “Chase Walker, silver spoon socialite extraordinaire.” Not “Mr. Walker, hard-ass CEO.” Just plain old Chase, who gets a kick out of winding people up and playing court jester.

Which—full circle—is why they wouldn’t recognize me during business hours.

The meeting adjourns and the sounds of scraping chairs harmonize above the clicks of laptops shutting, the slide of ceramic coffee mugs being collected, and the muted strains of polite conversation.

I head out of the opposite door to everyone else, the glass cool on my palm and the only indication Evelyn follows being the clip of her heels.

Pausing to hold the door open, I catch the amused look on her face.

“Careful now, don’t want to shatter that grizzly reputation you work so hard on.”

Humming a low noise is my only response as we walk side by side to the two offices that span the entire east side of this floor.

Light filters in through the polished glass curtain wall that wraps around the penultimate floor of Dev Ops Inc.

, creating a three-sixty panoramic viewing platform of Lower Manhattan right from the white marble grandeur of Wall Street to the sparkling Hudson River.

“Tessa, honey, I would get down on bended knee and propose if you fetched me a coffee.” I pause to lean one elbow on my assistant’s desk, flashing her a signature shit-eating grin that rarely gets seen in this fifty-five-story high-rise.

Evelyn’s derisive snort floats over my shoulder as she continues to her own office.

Tessa raises two slightly bushy grey eyebrows at me and purses her lips.

She is corralled inside a large black desk with a broad raised lip behind her screen so the world can barely see her. Just how she likes it, I suspect.

Aside from Evelyn, she’s the only other employee who gets a slice of the real me.

Not because I didn’t try to treat her like everyone else, she just told me in no uncertain terms on her first day that I could go and do something very inappropriate to my own ass and then shove the job up there too if I didn’t buck my manners up.

After blowing through three assistants in the space of a year—two of which looked at me with heart eyes that even my steeliest mask couldn’t deter, and one of which was just plain incompetent—I was desperate enough to keep her on. Who am I kidding? I admired the set of balls on the old girl.

“Go get your own coffee, I’ve got work to do.” She hooks one finger over the rim of her glasses to slide them up her nose a touch.

Her eyes crease a further degree and even though her lips are still pressed firmly together, there is no hint of true annoyance. She gets a kick out of cutting me off at the knees as much as I like trying to win her over.

Sighing dramatically, I bounce my palm twice on the raised desk lip and head for my office. “It’s a good thing I ordered Joe’s for us both, then.”

“Good boy,” she responds in a tone laced with a hidden smile, because Joe’s is her favorite coffee shop half a block away.

I turn when I reach the large double mahogany-stained doors. “It was extra cream, extra sugar, right?”

She twists slowly in her swivel chair, wearing a stern mask of dissension that probably has her grandkids’ knees wobbling. She’s watching her cholesterol and I know it. She knows I know it.

“Suddenly I don’t feel so bad reminding you that you have your meeting with that journalist next.” She sniffs haughtily, twisting to resume her position as office sentinel.

My cheek hitches with a steaming mug of instantly brewed annoyance, gaze sliding to the still-shut doors. I’ve been rescheduling this stupid interview for weeks, but my PR team says it will be worthwhile.