You build the case.
You demolish the opposition.
“So we prove the memo is forged,” I say finally. “We expose his shell companies and show the community you’re not involved.”
Corin looks at me for a long moment. “And if we can’t?”
I lean forward, holding his gaze. “Then we build a better case.”
He reaches across the desk and takes my hand. “Together?”
“Together,” I confirm.
17
Corin
Iwake up with Amara’s hair in my face and her ass pressed against my thigh, and for a second I forget that my entire professional life is circling the drain.
Just for a second.
Then I remember that Xavier Laurent is somewhere on this island plotting my destruction while I lie here like a lovesick idiot counting the freckles on my girlfriend’s shoulder.
Girlfriend. Is that what she is now?
We haven’t talked about it. Haven’t defined anything. We agreed to share my bed each night and face whatever comes together, and at some point I stopped pretending this was casual.
I stopped pretending a lot of things.
She shifts in her sleep, making a soft sound that stirs my cock. Her tank top has ridden up, exposing a strip of pale skin at her waist. I want to touch her. Want to wake her up by sliding my hand under that fabric and feeling her arch into me.
But I have a press event in an hour and several more problems that won’t solve themselves.
So instead I ease out of bed, careful not to disturb her, and head for the shower.
Cold water. That’s what I need. Something to reset myself and remind me that I’m still Corin Saelinger, not whatever soft, distracted version of myself I’ve become since she started sleeping in my bed.
But if I’m being entirely honest, I kind of like this new version of me.
I’m drying off when my phone buzzes. Thorne.
Press event protocol confirmed. Two-car convoy. Keon primary, Sable secondary. Local police coordinating crowd control. ETA venue 09:45.
Right. The school donation.
This is a good thing. It’s genuine philanthropy. New computers for the island’s schools, scholarships for promising students, and teacher training programs. The kind of work the foundation was built to do.
Except it’s also a countermove. After what Amara found last night, after seeing Xavier work that community forum like a seasoned con artist, I need something to stabilize my image before he poisons it further.
Every dollar I’m donating today is both authentic and strategic, and the fact that those two things can coexist makes me want to throw my phone at the wall.
I get dressed instead. Lightweight linen suit in sand with unlined loafers. The whole tropical businessman aesthetic I’ve perfected since arriving on Eleuthera.
When I emerge from the bathroom, Amara is awake. She’s sitting up in bed, the sheet pooled around her waist, her hair a beautiful mess.
“You’re up early,” she says.
“We have that press thing today, remember?” I adjust my cuffs because I need something to do with my hands.
