You’re probably going to get destroyed by this, you know.
21
Nico
“So about the office gossip,” I say as she kicks off her heels inside her apartment door.
Bree turns to me, already shaking her head. “No.”
“Bree—”
“No.” She crosses the distance between us and kisses me hard, her fingers fisting in my hair. When she pulls back, her eyes are fierce. “The office is the last thing I want to think about right now. I just want to forget about all that. Okay?”
I search her face. See the exhaustion there, the strain of carrying this weight.
“Okay,” I murmur against her mouth.
So we didn’t talk. We fucked all night. But talked? No.
Now it’s morning, and I’m sitting in my office staring at the magazine spread on my desk, and the office gossip about Bree seems almost quaint compared to the shitstorm brewing in the business press.
Kieran Ashby’s business magazine profile finallydropped. The headline reads: “The Scar King: How Nico Rossi Built a Billion-Dollar Empire on Other People’s Trauma.”
Cute. Real fucking cute.
I flip through the pages. There are photos of me looking cold and calculating at last year’s investor conference. A pull quote that reads: “Rossi monetizes other people’s trauma while living in a Tribeca penthouse.” Anonymous sources talking about “toxic work culture” and “questionable ethics.”
Martin Hale’s fingerprints are all over this.
I almost admire the elegance of it. The man obviously fed Ashby names, gave him an angle, and now I’m getting crucified in the court of public opinion while Martin circles like a vulture waiting for the carcass to stop twitching.
My phone buzzes. Dashiell.
“You’ve seen the article,” my CFO says when I pick up.
“I’m looking at it now,” I admit.
“Board’s in an uproar. Helena called me this morning. She says Martin’s formally proposing an external consulting firm to review governance and operational efficiency.”
“That’s not areview,” I spit. “That’s a takeover.”
“I know. But he’s got four votes now. Maybe five.”
Christ.
Almost half the board is ready to hand over my company to Martin Hale’s private equity vultures so they can strip it for parts. All thanks to one article. That, and the earlier leak.
“What about Helena?” I ask. “Where does she stand?”
“Still on your side. But she’s worried. She says you need something concrete. Something thataddresses the donor concerns and neutralizes Martin’s attacks.”
“I’m working on it,” I tell him.
“Work faster.” He hangs up.
I set the phone down and stare at Bree through the glass walls.
She’s at her desk, typing something on her laptop, her brow furrowed in concentration.
