"Maybe it's about the house." She drags in a slow breath.
We'd been speculating the entire car ride here, running through endless possibilities. Knowing my father, this meeting could be about anything—more unpaid debts, hidden assets,some clause in the will that needed immediate attention.Any fucking thing.
I loved my father. God, I loved him.
But I wish he’d been half as careful with our money as he was with everyone else’s.
He was a private equity investor. The brilliant and relentless John Monroe. A man who built fortunes for strangers… and somehow left his own family drowning in debt.
"Maybe it's about the life insurance..." Mom's voice trails off.
"William would've mentioned that over the phone. We've discussed it at length already." And there was nothing more to say. Dad had decreased his insurance package, so we barely had enough money to bury him and a few thousand left for Mom to survive on.
"Maybe there's something that will affect the rest of the payout." Mom holds her breath, and I can see how terrified she is. The money she's referring to is barely a cushion, but with her medical treatment, we need every cent.
"Mom, let's just wait and see what he says." I squeeze her hands again, trying to anchor us both. "There's no point in torturing ourselves with guesses."
She looks at me then, really looks at me, and the exhaustion tinged with desperation in her eyes makes my chest ache. "I just don't have the strength for more bad news, Isla. I don't."
Before I can answer, the heavy mahogany door swings open.
William strides in, thick set and florid, his pin-striped suit straining across his middle. Thinning gray hair plasters to his scalp, and his eyes flicker with the same unease clinging to the air.
And he isn't alone.
My breath catches somewhere between my lungs and throat when my eyes lock on the man walking in behind him. He's tall—impossibly tall, like almost seven feet—and his shoulders look engineered to bear the weight of empires.
His charcoal Kiton suit fits him like a second skin with hand-stitched perfection that whispers old money and quiet ruthlessness. Dark hair, cut short at the sides, sweeps back from a face that could've been carved from marble by someone who understood that beauty was supposed to hurt a little.
He's the kind of man sculpted to make you look twice and regret it instantly.
But it's his eyes that make my pulse stutter.Cold. Calculating. Cruel. The color of a winter storm rolling in off the Atlantic. And they're fixed directly on me.
Against his arctic coldness, heat twists low in my stomach before I can stop it. Then reality slams into me as recognition hits.
I know who this guy is. I’ve seen him in the papers and on TV.
He’s Knox Vale, heir to Vale Global’s multi–billion-dollar investment empire.
The same man the press loves to call a monster, yetGQlisted him as one of New York’s most eligible bachelors.
Good for him. But what the hell is he doing here?
My father worked for the Vales many years ago as their director of Portfolio Management. I'd never met any of them, but judging from what I've read about Knox, and that soulless look in his bright blue eyes, I doubt he's here to offer condolences.
Mom and I exchange shocked glances before returning our gazes to the two men as William closes the door.
"What is going on?" I ask, cutting to the chase.
"Isla, Greta." William acknowledges us in that good-natured way of his, but the cloudiness in his eyes tells me he's on edge. "Thank you for coming on such short notice."
I glance back at Knox briefly, because those stormy eyes are still watching me.
"I'm sure you both know Mr. Knox Vale," William continues, gesturing to Knox. "He was a business associate of your father's when he worked at Vale Global."
"I remember." Mom's voice is thin and strained.
Knox's attention shifts to her, and something flickers across his face. Not quite sympathy. More like recognition of a weakness he could exploit if he chose to.
