Richard waves a hand, clearly enjoying himself. Everyone knows he likes to drink, so it’s no real surprise, and it benefits us as it gives us an inside track.
“Hell, I don’t pretend to understand half the technical jargon,” he says. “That’s what our analysts are for. But some of the stuffhe’s been throwing around sounded a hell of a lot like what we’ve been hearing from you guys.”
I let out a polite laugh, but a cold unease settles in my stomach. “Well, we’ll look forward to showing you at the executive retreat you’re hosting, why Knightwell is the right choice.”
“I hope you’re looking forward to the retreat?” Clive asks, cutting Richard off before he says more. “Should be a good one. The New Paltz Mountain Lodge has the right balance—secluded, but nottoomuch like roughing it.”
I smirk. “You say that like Monarch execs wouldn’t survive a minor discomfort.”
That gets a chuckle. “We can handle it,” he says. “But we also like a decent bar at the end of the day.”
Austen shifts beside me, finally speaking up. “Should be an interesting few days. See how everyone stacks up outside a boardroom.”
Richard nods, his eyes glazed. “That executive retreat, though—not exactly my idea of fun. But you know how Ravenscroft loves to play Boy Scouts. Team-building, wilderness bonding, all that crap. Give me a golf course any day.”
The conversation drifts from business to golf—hardly a topic that interests me—but I nod along just enough to keep the mood light. My mind is elsewhere. On what, Richard let slip. On the way, Austen has barely spoken in the last five minutes, his fingers tapping a steady rhythm against the table.
Eventually, Richard and his team move on, leaving me and Austen alone.
“That wasn’t nothing,” Austen says, keeping his voice low.
I exhale, rolling the glass between my fingers. “No, it wasn’t.”
Austen sets his glass down, leaning in. “He described our approach. It’s too close to what we’ve been developing. Elliot shouldn’t know that.”
I nod, razoring my hand over my stubble. “Either Elliot’s a mind reader, or someone’s been running their mouth.”
“Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Austen says in his usual measured way. “Let’s just tread carefully.”
Before we can delve deeper, Lacey slides up to our table, grinning like she’s been waiting for this moment.
“Gentlemen, so there’s a rumor going around that Chase got Violet Harper fired. Any thoughts on that?”
Austen’s wide-eyed gaze shoots at me. I keep my expression unreadable. “That so?” I say.
Lacey’s eyes gleam. “Mm-hmm, the other theory is that Elliot kidnapped her, seeing as he was low-key obsessed with her.”
Austen lets out a dry laugh, but I don’t react. Not outwardly. Inside, something cold and sharp spikes through me. Any notion of Elliot and Violet tears at my sanity.
I lift a brow, tone dry. “Sounds like people have too much time on their hands.”
Lacey winks. “Hey, gossip keeps this place running.” She turns and saunters off, leaving the words hanging between us.
Austen studies me, waiting. “You going to tell me which theory is closer to the truth?”
I take my time, reaching for my glass. “Does it matter?”
He exhales, shaking his head. “Yeah, it does. When it involves one of our employees, one of ourmosttalented employees.” He pauses, then frowns. “Also, since when did Violet work here?”
A flicker of irritation tightens my jaw. I pinch the bridge of my nose, my grip on control slipping. “She worked weekends to pay off some debts. I thought it looked bad for business, like Knightwell doesn’t pay its staff sufficiently. So, I requested she be replaced and made sure she was compensated generously.” I keep quiet about my other selfish reason. The one that doesn’t want her getting pawed by horny and drunk guys. Especially Elliot.
Silence stretches between us before Austen’s lips curve into a slow, knowing smile. “You’re into Violet.”
I scoff, shifting in my seat. “What? No.” My tie suddenly seems too tight.
“I’ve noticed it before,” he continues, his tone laced with something sharper now. “You’re different when she’s around.” His expression hardens. “But you realize it’d be insanity, right?”
“Of course,” I clip. “I’m not an idiot. It would never work.” The words feel like ash in my mouth, so I drown them with another drink, ignoring the hollow ache in my chest.
