8. Chapter 8
Chapter eight
~DECLAN~
The thing about pretending is that it requires constant vigilance.
It's Thursday morning, May twenty-eighth — three weeks since Tulum, two weeks since Darcy started working here — and I'm sitting in the executive conference room trying to focus on the Shaw brothers' weekly strategy meeting while my brain keeps wandering to the woman sitting at the reception desk forty feet away.
The Manhattan weather has turned properly warm now, the air conditioning in the building working overtime, which means the conference room is arctic and I'm in shirtsleeves with my jacket draped over the back of my chair.
As for my youngest brother Quinn, he’s mid-sentence, pontificating about legacy and moral responsibility…
Which is how I know the honeymoon must have done a number on his dick. And brain.
Likely both at the same time.
"—all I'm saying is that we should consider a complete exit from nightclub operations within the year," he finishes, looking between Wyeth and me like he expects us to agree.
My older brother Wyeth, who has been taking notes on his tablet, looks up. "Within the year."
"Yes."
"That's a sixty-million-dollar revenue stream."
"That we're trying to move away from anyway with the Tulum pivot."
"Trying to move away from and actually moving away from are different timelines." Wyeth sets the tablet down. "The hospitality division isn't profitable yet. Won't be for another eighteen months minimum. If we exit nightclub ops now, we're running on reserves."
"We have reserves," Quinn says.
"We have reserves for strategic investment. Not for philanthropic gestures."
"It's not philanthropic. It's legacy building."
I've been quiet through this entire exchange, which both of them have noticed. Because I'm never quiet in strategy meetings.
In fact, I typically run strategy meetings. Make the calls.
I'm the one who decides when we move and how fast.
Except right now I can't decide anything, because the “going-straight” argument they're having about business is the same argument I'm having with myself about Darcy Madison.
"Dec?" Wyeth looks at me. "You're the deciding vote."
"I'm aware."
"So decide."
I look at the projections on the screen.
The Tulum property deal is progressing.
We're in final negotiations, the seller is motivated, and honestly, the numbers work. They work well.
If we close in the next thirty days, we have a flagship hospitality property that changes the entire trajectory of the company, changes everything my father built.
Nearly forty-odd years ago, Thomas Shaw started Shaw Entertainment Group. With three nightclubs in Los Angeles, the dogmatic patriarch of our family built a booming business off one major philosophy—that success meant being willing to operate in the gray areas competitors avoided.
Liquor licensing workarounds. Cash-heavy operations that didn't ask questions. Strategic relationships with people who could make problems disappear.
He built an empire worth ninety million dollars a year.
He also died of a heart attack at fifty-three, three weeks after dirty financier Richard Cole's hedge fund campaign destroyed his commercial real estate portfolio and left him financially ruined.
That was twenty-four years ago.
Since then, my brothers and I have spent two decades rebuilding what Cole destroyed — except we built it differently. Wyeth handles operations with ruthless efficiency. When Quinn became of age, he managed talent relations and kept our public face clean.
And I became the enforcer.
The one who handles the difficult negotiations. The one who makes sure deals close when they need to close.
The one who's willing to do what needs doing when the situation calls for it — though these days "what needs doing" is significantly more legal than it was in our father's time.
Mostly.
The Tulum property represents something none of us say out loud—proof that we can go legitimate. That Shaw Entertainment Group can be something our father never lived to see, a hospitality company that doesn't operate in the shadows.
If we don't close, or if we close but can't fund the buildout because we've exited our core revenue stream too early, we're exposed.
And exposure means questions about how three brothers turned nightclub operations into a nine-figure enterprise in two decades.
Questions I'd prefer not to answer.
"We accelerate the Tulum close," I say finally. "Sixty days maximum. Once that's locked, we revisit the nightclub exit timeline."
"Sixty days?" Quinn frowns. "That's—"
"Realistic," Wyeth finishes. "The Tulum deal has variables we can't control. The seller's timeline. The Mexican regulatory approval. The—"
"I can control it," I say. "I'll be on a plane to Tulum next week if that's what it takes."
Because controlling difficult situations is what I do.
It's what I've always done.
It's the only reason we're still standing after what Richard Cole did to our father.
But you wouldn’t know it with the way that Wyeth is currently looking at me.
"What?" I ask.
"Nothing."
“For fuck’s sake, Wy. I can see the thought bubble around your head. Spit it out.”
He exhales, leaning back in his chair. “You sound…different.”
"I'm closing a nine-figure deal. That requires change.”
“Not saying you sound bad. Just…different.” He leans back in his chair. "Is there something going on I should know about?"
"No."
"Because if there's a complication with the deal—"
"There's no complication with the deal."
"Then what's the complication with the new receptionist?"
The temperature in the conference room drops ten degrees.
Quinn looks between us. "What?"
"Nothing," I say.
"Not nothing," Wyeth says. "You avoid the front desk.
You take the stairs when you used to take the elevator.
You barely look at her when you walk past. Which is notable because your grumpy ass stares at everyone.
It's what you do. You assess threats and assets and position people accordingly.
But her? You pretend she doesn't exist."
"She's a receptionist covering for Beatrice. Why would I need to assess her?"
"Because she's excellent at her job and you haven't noticed. Or you have noticed and you're pretending you haven't, which is worse." Wyeth tilts his head. "What's the story there?"
"There's no story."
"Dec—"
"She's Quinn’s wife’s best friend. We coordinated at the wedding because we had to. She does good work. End of story."
Wyeth doesn't look convinced, but he lets it go because the conference room door opens and my executive assistant Victoria walks in with her tablet and a frown you could see from a mile away.
"Your eleven o'clock is here," she says.
I check my watch. Ten forty-seven.
"They're early."
"By thirteen minutes. And they're in the lobby because there's no one at the front desk to greet them."
I stand up. "Where's Darcy?"
"Miss Madison," Victoria corrects, and I realize my mistake immediately.
Both Wyeth and Quinn are looking at me now.
"Where's Miss Madison?" I amend.
"I don't know. She was there when I walked past ten minutes ago. Now she's not."
I grab my jacket. "I'll handle it."
I'm out of the conference room before either of my brothers can ask follow-up questions, and I'm taking the stairs — ironic, given Wyeth just called me out on it — down to the company lobby level.
The Tulum deal associates are standing near the elevators. Two men in expensive suits who flew in from Mexico City specifically for this meeting, and they're checking their watches with the familiar impatience of people who are used to being accommodated.
I approach with my hand extended and my CEO-slash-founder smile in place.
"Gentlemen. Declan Shaw. My apologies for the delay—"
We're doing the handshake-and-greeting dance when I see her.
Darcy.
Crouched behind the reception desk like she's looking for something on the floor.
Except the position is wrong. The posture is wrong.
She's hiding.