Sweet Salvation (Love & Legacy #5)

Chapter 1

OLIVIA

Not actually stabbing someone when you spend an entire meeting visualizing that exact thing is a sign of successful adulting. Now who wants to get

me another cup of coffee as my prize?

—Olivia’s Secret Thoughts

“Alittle early for champagne, isn’t it?” According to the alarm reminding me I need to get the hell out of here and over to our Vegas offices, it’s two p.m. But I swear this city has some kind of freaky time-warping powers, so who knows .

. . I wobble as I slip my heel on while my ridiculously beautiful cousin finishes her flute, then rips a big old chunk of bread from the charcuterie tray and drags it through the burrata before popping it between her pristine pink lips. “Umm . . . Serena?”

Her eyes hold mine as she plucks a juicy strawberry from the tray, and honestly, the look she gives me could freeze a man in his tracks.

I mean, it doesn’t work on me because I basically taught it to her, but she gets an A for effort.

I was really hoping being out of town would lighten her up a little.

“Are we eating our feelings today, carbie Barbie?”

“Whatever, bitchy Barbie.” Serena lobs a grape at my head, her perfectly arched strawberry-blonde brows lifting in defiance.

We may sound mean to outsiders, but when sarcasm is your love language, mean is up for interpretation.

And it’s seriously unfair the way this woman can devour carbs without ever gaining a single pound.

“I’m contemplating drinking my feelings, which means I need carbs to soak up all the alcohol therapy, thank you very much. ”

Okay, then.

I guess if I were her, I would be too.

Not that she wants to talk about it.

Instead of pushing harder, I choose love over violence. Not a choice I make often, but Serena is one of the few people who gets this version of me. “Whatever you say.”

“What time is your meeting?” She glances at her phone, then flips it face down on the table and shoves it away. “Better question. What time will you be back? No one knows us here, and I definitely need to get drunk tonight.”

Oh, fuck me.

I grab the half-empty bottle of Cristal, the one she’s drunk by herself, and snicker when she pouts. “In what world do you think they don’t know you here?”

Serena Kingston is the kind of heiress who couldn’t fly under the radar if the damn radar was nonexistent.

She walks into a room, and all heads turn.

She’s smart and beautiful and athletic and selfless and far kinder than I am .

. . and at this rate, she’s going to be slurring her words by the time I get back.

“In a world where we’re half a country away from Kroydon Hills and all its residents.

Now give me my champagne, go to your stupid partners’ meeting, and get back here so I can get drunk without having to defend myself to anyone tomorrow.

” She grabs the bottle from my hands and refills her glass, then legitimately shoos me away like I’m a bug.

I guess I should be grateful she’s not just drinking straight from the bottle.

Maybe she’s saving that for after I leave.

“You’re going to feel like hell tomorrow,” I warn while I make sure everything I need is in my bag.

“Yeah, well . . . you’re going to wake up a partner in your firm tomorrow. So we can act like we’re both celebrating tonight.” Her voice cracks on the last few words, and my heart breaks for my cousin.

“Serena . . . Have you talked to—”

Her blue eyes flame wild as she clenches her jaw. “We are not speaking his name.”

“How old are we?” I groan, then throw my hands up in defense when she growls like her feral bulldog. “Forget I asked. I’ll be back in a few hours. Try to stay sober enough to leave the room when I get back, okay?”

She smiles as she lifts a shoulder, forcing the skinny strap of her dress back in place. “Whatever you say, Liv.”

This is so not going to end well.

Tristan Mulland is an odd man. He’s gorgeous in a silver-fox, daddy-issues kind of way.

Not that I have those, thank God. Mommy issues maybe.

But seriously, you would too if your mother was Scarlet Kingston-St. James.

Anyhoo, back to Tristan . . . He’s hot, unbelievably confident, and yet somehow still manages to be awkward as fuck.

He also happens to be the senior managing partner of Mulland, Exeter & Associates Sports Agency, my direct manager, and maybe my mentor.

Jury is still out on that though, because he’s also the same man who’s been dangling the carrot of partner in front of my face for the past two years, swearing I’d be the youngest partner in firm history, which is unfortunately not saying much, considering Tristan, his brother, Cameron, and their partner, Peter Exeter, are all twice my age.

This man holds my future in the palm of his overly tanned hand, and I want it. Badly.

Partner is the next goal in a long list of goals I’d like to make my bitch this year.

Technically, I’m what you’d call an overachiever.

Graduate from college summa cum laude in three years—check.

Finish law school and pass the bar on my first try—check, check.

Join one of the most prestigious sports agencies in the country—triple check.

And best of all, I crossed each achievement off my list without the help of my very large, very influential family.

I did it with hard work, great grades, and okay, maybe very little life or fun, but it was worth it.

Now, that doesn’t mean I’m naive enough to believe being a St. James—or more accurately a Kingston-St. James—didn’t help me get my foot in the door.

But it’s pretty hard to find someone in the world of professional sports who, at the very least, isn’t familiar with my family name.

Serena isn’t the only heiress. She’s just the most easily recognized one within our family.

The Kingstons have owned the most successful, highly respected football dynasty in NFL history for nearly a century.

And since I’m only one in a long line of overachievers in my family, they went and bought a flailing hockey team and turned it into one of the most winning teams in the NHL a little over thirty years ago.

And that’s just my mother’s side of our hard-to-live-up-to family tree.

Not to be outdone, the St. James side doesn’t believe in slackers either. My father, brother, uncle, and cousin are all world-champion MMA fighters, and my older sister is the physical therapist for Crucible, the family gym.

It’s impressive, not that I’d tell any of them that.

Their heads are big enough already.

Basically, Philadelphia sports is in my blood, even if I don’t have an athletic bone in my body.

But like my mother, I’ve got a sixth sense for business, and I may or may not enjoy making men twice my size shake in their expensive black Brioni suits when they sit down across a conference table from me to negotiate a client’s contract.

Bonus points if their clients shake too.

This industry is still an old boy’s club, and those old boys love underestimating a young woman.

They look at me and see beauty instead of brains. You can’t be pretty and a formidable opponent according to most of them, and my God, I love making them eat their words before they’ve even realized what’s happened.

Some clients are great. Some are assholes. Some fall happily in-between. Those are the easy ones. I don’t have many I’d call easy. But I guess such is the life of pro athletes and their agents. There’s a sick symbiosis of sorts. But it works.

Here’s the thing. I don’t care what you are or who you are.

As long as I’m representing you, it’s my job to get you the best deal, even if it’s pushing back against one of my family’s teams. And I’m damn good at my job, which is why I’m hoping today will be the day they’ll finally announce I’ve made partner. I’m tired of chasing the stupid carrot.

“Wouldn’t you agree, Olivia?”

Shit.

I look up at Tristan and casually nod, like I’ve been paying attention instead of thinking about the new shoes I’m buying as a promotion present to myself.

But seriously, they are sexy shoes. I learned early on that being five foot three isn’t an advantage in this industry, so I pivoted.

Maybe more like adjusted . . . Whatever.

You’ll never catch me in a heel less than four inches high when I’m working.

Ridiculous—yes. Necessary—you bet your ass.

The height helps me look older and scarier because I could absolutely stab a man with one of my shoes. An urge I’ve definitely fought a time or two. Apparently, Brynlee and Killian got all the height from our parents. They left none for me.

Tristan’s smile broadens as he looks to my right and left at the firm’s two other associates here today. Both men. Both older. Both far less successful at bringing in new clients.

I might be against using my family’s name to get ahead, but the connections I’ve made through the years because of who I am are still my connections, and I’ve pulled in every single one of them since joining the firm.

Hockey players, football players, baseball players, MMA fighters, basketball stars, three soccer players, two golfers, and one Formula 1 driver.

Add in a few Olympians and a coach or two, and my roster is just how I like it, beautifully full.

“Wonderful.” Tristan claps his hands together and turns toward the projector where the associates from our satellite offices sit.

“We’ll be sad to see you go come January, Peter, but retirement will look good on you.

And I have no doubt that everyone is anxious to step up and show us why they should be the next partner at Mulland Exeter. ”

What?

Did he just say January?

“Thank you all so much for an incredible year. Now go enjoy sin city. We’ll see you all in the office next week.”

Murmurs can be heard through the Zoom being broadcast behind Tristan. Our international associates in our satellite offices are obviously as surprised as me and Tweedle Dee and Tweedle Dum sitting beside me.

January?

As in five months from now?

The fucking carrot was supposed to be mine today.

How many times has Tristan told me just a few more months.

Just a few more clients.

Just a few more—

“Olivia . . .” He waits a beat for me to look at him. “Could you hang back a moment?”

I somehow manage to close my laptop without slamming it and slide it back into my bag, stealing myself another moment to gather my composure before looking at this man I want to strangle with my bare hands.

Tristan waits for Dee and Dumb to leave the conference room before sitting back down at the head of the table between Cam and Peter.

Please, sweet baby Jesus, let this be it.

“Listen, Olivia,” Cameron interjects, and I cringe, already not loving his tone. “We know you’ve been waiting to make partner, but we just don’t think you’re there yet.”

Before I can even open my mouth, Peter steps in. “Being partner takes everything, Olivia. It takes long hours and unbelievable dedication.”

The hair on the back of my neck stands on edge, like I’m about to get stabbed.

These fuckers.

“I believe my track record has proven I have no problem working long hours, gentlemen. And I’ve certainly never given you any reason to question my dedication to the firm. I’m not sure what else you’re looking for, but I can assure you—”

“Olivia,” Tristan stops me. “Our concern is that you’re not settled. Yes, you’re dedicated. Yes, you’re good at your job. You’re one of the best we’ve ever had, but you’re still young. You’re not—”

“I’m not what?” My inner boss bitch is reminding me to keep my temper on lockdown because freaking out and calling this man a limp-dick little prick is not going to make me partner right now.

The way Tristan looks down his Roman nose at me makes me cringe. This isn’t going to be good. “You’re a young woman, Olivia. You’re going to want to settle down. You’re going to want to find a husband. Start a family. You can’t think we’ll always be your top priority.”

I close my eyes as I inhale.

Did he just tell me I didn’t get the job because I’m a woman who can’t balance my job and a possible family I may or may not ever have?

I look between the three men, taking my time to decide how exactly I want to handle this.

Telling them all to get fucked isn’t an option.

Threatening them with HR because apparently they’re sexist assholes isn’t much of an option either, considering this is their firm, and I’m an at-will employee.

But seriously, I can’t let this go. No way. Not today. Not in this lifetime.

With my mind made up, I smooth my hands over the cool mahogany table and look over the three partners. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, I’m not sure I heard you right. Are you not offering me partner because I’m a woman or because I might one day be a wife and mother?”

“We’re not offering anyone partner today, Olivia.

” Cameron straightens his tie. “We’re simply saying we’d feel more comfortable with the idea of a younger partner if they were more .

. .”—he clears his throat, like that’s going to make this axe-dropping any better—“settled and had already shown us they can balance the inevitable.”

Inevitable? What the hell?

I’m not being made partner because I’m not settled.

Are you kidding me?

What in the Mad Men era of business—?

My head spins as my blood boils.

I’ve chosen my career over having a life, and now I’m being punished for it.

Maybe Serena had the right idea.

I think I need a drink.