Sally smirks when she catches me gawping. “Yep, he’s hot as fuck, but I bet he’s a real ruthless bastard.”
“Oh, he is,” I say, the bitterness coming through a tad too much. She glances at me, puzzled, but lets it go, grabbing my hand instead.
“Come on, let’s flag a cab; we can expense it.”
As we step outside, the chill hits me, and I tug my jacket tighter around me. As fall folds into winter, the evenings are pulling in fast, the sky already sliding toward that deep navy blue that comes right before dark. The lights from the office buildings stretch across the River Thames, the reflection of twinkling glass smudged by the ripple of the river.
Canary Wharf has its own kind of rhythm at this hour. The streets are dotted with office workers spilling out into the night. Conversations drift past — laughter, tired goodbyes, looseweekend plans as business shifts to pleasure. The towers loom overhead, their lights glittering against the inky surface of the docks below.
I glance toward the water, my thoughts drifting home. Thanksgiving isn’t far away. Gracie’s hoping to visit, and I’ve promised to cover her airfare.
A black cab glides to the curb, its headlights slicing through the dusk. Rory steps back, letting Sally and me climb in first.
As the cab pulls away, the polished steel and modern sprawl of Canary Wharf fade behind us, replaced by London’s older heart — brick buildings, warm pub windows, a few cobbled streets dotted here and there. Gracie is going to love it.
Sally leans forward in her seat, peering out the window like a kid on a school trip.
“God, I needed this,” she says. “Let’s drink vodka tonight. Less of a hangover.”
Rory snorts. “That’s a lie, and you know it.”
“No, it’s true,” I insist. “I saw it on YouTube.”
“Oh, it must be true then,” Rory says, tone laced with his usual sarcasm.
The pub isn’t one of the modern ones—this place has old timber beams, low ceilings, and windows etched with grime and history. The air’s thick with the smell of warm beer and the buzz of bodies crammed shoulder to shoulder.
We’ve only just wedged ourselves around a high table before Martin shows up, a pint of beer in hand, looking more relaxed than I’ve ever seen him. His cheeks are a little pink, tie loosened, sleeves rolled.
Sally leans over to whisper in my ear. “Not sure what’s got into him. Maybe he got his yearly shag.”
I snort into my vodka glass, stifling a laugh.
“Right,” Martin says, waiting for us to crowd around. “I suppose you’re wondering why I said you could expenseeverything.” His mouth twitches like he’s holding back a grin. “I wanted to tell you before the rest of the office hears on Monday.”
Rory raises an eyebrow. “Spit it out, then.”
“The predictive analytics platform you’ve been working so hard on, Knightwell, is interested. They want to meet the design team and to discuss it at their head office in New York.”
The world doesn’t tilt—not exactly—but the sound around me dulls like someone’s pressed their hands over my ears.
Knightwell.
Chase.
Knightwell doesn’t knock on doors like ours without a reason. A billion-dollar powerhouse chasing down a London start-up? It only makes sense if they want the software. The predictive analytics platform we’ve spent weeks building shouldn’t even be on their radar unless Chase put it there. Unless this is personal.
The table erupts. Cheers, laughter, Rory swearing, Sally clapping her hands like it’s Christmas morning. I drain my drink in one go, the burn doing nothing to numb the coil of fear tightening in my chest.
I stare into the bottom of my empty glass. Of all the companies, it had to be his. It doesn’t make sense — our company’s barely a blip in the ocean compared to them. Unless this isn’t about the company at all. Unless it’s about me.
The thought chews away at me as the night stretches on. Another drink, another toast. The heat, the press of bodies, the scratch of old rock tracks crackling out of the speakers. My laughter seems wrong every time it leaves my mouth, like it belongs to someone else.
Why would they want our software? Why now?
The drinks don’t stop, and I let them keep coming, the vodka numbing the edges enough to get me through the motions. Laughter starts sounding the same. My cheeks hurt fromsmiling. My head buzzes and blurs until the pub doors swing open again, and someone’s already calling another cab.
The club we land in is wall-to-wall bodies. Traders and tech boys throwing drinks around like the city’s their playground. Someone hands me another drink. I take it. Sip. Swallow. Smile. Pretend.
