“You got it. 31st Street.”
My phone buzzes as we pull onto the street.
The city slides past the window. Street lights. Late-night delis still open. People living their lives at midnight like it’s the most normal thing in the world.
New York City. The city that never sleeps.
I lean my head against the window and close my eyes, wondering how many more late nights like this I can survive.
9
Nico
Ever since the leak, it’s felt like I’ve been slowly bleeding out on the operating room table while Martin Hale stands over me with a scalpel, smiling like he’s doing me a favor.
Yep. That’s exactly what it feels like.
A slow surgical dismemberment of everything I’ve built.
I’m standing at my office windows at 7 AM, watching the Hudson catch the morning light, and all I can think about is how many different ways Martin is trying to fuck me over.
The leaked slides were just the first incision.
Now he’s working on the deeper tissue.
Dashiell, my CFO, called me at 6:30 this morning. Woke me from the two hours of sleep I managed to scrape together.
“In regards to the forensic review of Martin’s communications you tasked me with, I found something interesting in the calendar data,” he said. “Martin’s been meeting with board members. Separately. Off the books.”
“Which ones?”
“Chen, Whitmore, and Paulson. All at his club. All within the last ten days.”
Three out of nine voting members. Plus Martin himself makes four. He needs five to force a governance restructure. Which means he’s one vote away from neutering my control over my own goddamn company.
I take a sip of my coffee. It’s gone cold. I don’t care.
The business magazine profile drops soon. Kieran Ashby, that persistent bastard, has been calling everyone I’ve ever worked with. My sources tell me Martin fed him a list of names. People who might have grievances. Former employees. Competitors. Anyone with a sharp enough knife to stick in my back.
My phone buzzes. A text from Dr. Helena Vasquez, a board member I consider an ally.
Martin cornered me at the hospital gala last night. He’s making his pitch sound reasonable. He’s “concerned about leadership stability.” Watch your back.
I type back:Working on it. Thanks for the heads up.
The phone on my desk buzzes. I don’t turn around immediately.
“Mr. Rossi, your 8 AM is here early. Should I send them up?”
Bree’s voice through the intercom.
I turn.
She’s seated at her desk just outside the glass wall of my office. Her hair is pulled back today, and I can see the curve of her neck where I once pressed my lips.
Enough.
“Send them up,” I say more harshly than I intend.
