Three weeks later…
I’m in hell. Lucy’s only been gone one week, and I’m swimming in a cesspool of my own making. The phone is ringing nonstop, my office looks like a tornado blew through, and, like an asshole, I double-booked dinner on Wednesday. Talk about awkward. Even the maître d’ was at a loss for words when my second date arrived.
But the real cherry on top of the shit sundae?
Keke and Zane—the Hollywood power couple I’ve been courting for the last two months—had a nuclear blowup outside some L.A. club last night, which means Triada can kiss any hope of securing a joint endorsement deal goodbye.
Seven days.
Seven. Fucking. Days.
That’s all it took for my life to implode without Lucy.
I shove a stack of reports aside, searching for my cell. It’s buried somewhere in the mess on top of my desk. At least, I hope it is.
“You’re late.”
At the sound of Nick’s gruff voice, I glance up to find my brother standing in the doorway looking twelve kinds of put out. No surprise there. Nick’s a stickler for punctuality, and, according to the clock in the lower right corner of my monitor, I’m twenty minutes late for our weekly business dinner.
“I was in a marketing meeting that ran long,” I say, resuming my search.
Where is that damn phone?
It’s not unusual for me to lose a cell—or five—but with my life in shambles, I don’t have time to chase down a replacement.
Especially on a Friday night.
If Lucy were here, she’d probably have a replacement tucked away in her desk.
She had a knack for anticipating problems before they arose. It was just one of the many talents that made her indispensable. A fact I’m realizing far too late.
“Maybe if you’d grow some balls and explain the concept of time management to Hillary,” Nick says, “you wouldn’t have this problem.” He pauses, and I don’t have to look to know he’s smirking when he speaks again. “You realize she worksforyou, right?”
Relief washes over me when I spot my cell wedged between the computer monitor and the landline.
“You know what your problem is?” I grab the phone and slide it into the pocket of my rumpled dress pants. “You expect everyone to think and act just like you.”
He snorts and gives my messy desk a pointed look. “From where I’m standing, that doesn’t seem like such a bad thing.”
My left eye twitches—another delightful new development this week—and I give him the finger. The last thing I need right now is a lecture. “Are we going to eat, or what?”
Nick turns on his heel, and I grudgingly follow as he leads the way to the boardroom.
Most weeks, I look forward to Friday night dinner with my brothers. It’s an opportunity to catch up on business with no distractions, but I’m not in the mood tonight.
When Nick, Beck, and I started Triada Tech, we were just a few hungry entrepreneurs, creating something from nothing in our foster mother’s basement. Seven years later, Triada’s mobile payment system has changed the face of FinTech. Transformed three rough-and-tumble orphans into billionaires shaping the future of Silicon Hills and rubbing elbows with Austin’s elite.
Talk about the ultimate head trip.
Hell, some days it still feels like a dream.
Which is why I’ve made a point of never forgetting my roots. Never forgetting where I come from or how quickly it can all come tumbling down.
All it takes is a moment. One error in judgment. One mistake you can’t take back.
I shove the thoughts to the back of my mind as we enter the boardroom. Beck is already seated at the long white table, reclining in a cobalt chair with the Triada logo—three interlocking triangles—printed on the back. Judging by the half-eaten salad before him, he’s been here a while.
“Took you long enough,” he says around a mouthful of rabbit food. When his eyes land on me, he does a double take, gaze lingering on my wrinkled shirt. “You look like shit.”
