A freaking Westwood.
I didn’t know which one. There were too many heirs to that particular throne. All four of them richer than oil barons, more gorgeous than demigods, and absolutely bloody insufferable, but the family resemblance was unmistakable.
The man standing in the doorway right now was definitely a Westwood. He had the sharp jawline, sharper eyes, and that undeniable aura of old money and too much power.
Whichever one of the infamous Westwood boys this was, he was tall, his broad shoulders filling the doorway. He wore an expensive suit like a second skin and a casual smirk, moving with the kind of confidence that said he’d never been saidnoto once in his life.
Not good. Not good at all.
The client’s lawyers immediately sat up straighter, and my eyes narrowed.Oh no, you don’t. Not today, buster.
I rose smoothly, plastering a smile on my face before I excused myself. My heels clicked against the polished floor as I stalked across the room, my eyes locked firmly on his, not wavering even once I got close enough to see that they were a truly intriguing hazel.
Almost completely ice-blue, his irises held a captivating undertone of green, shards of crystallized honey scattered in across them.No. Absolutely not, Aurelia.
I felt my features dropping into a scowl that was probably sharp enough to cut glass, but the Westwood didn’t flinch. He just leaned one shoulder against the doorframe, watching me approach like I was part of the day’s entertainment. I stopped in front of him, tilting my chin up to keep looking directly into his eyes.
“You’re late,” I hissed under my breath, keeping my lips curved in a social smile for the sake of our audience.
He arched a dark eyebrow, clearly amused. “Funny. I don’t remember getting an invite.”
Cocky bastard.
My mother’s voice hummed through my head, but it wasn’t her actual voice that rang the loudest. It was the disdain in it whenever their last name came up.They think they’re untouchable. Too good for us.
She wasn’t wrong. The Westwoods had been snubbing the Van Alens my whole life. Everyone in our social circles were invited to CC Westwood’s glittering soirées, but not us. They never acknowledged our deals or professional achievements in the press the way they did with other notable rivals. We never got any nods across charity galas.
My mother hated them for it and now, one of them had just waltzed into my meeting like he was entitled to be here. He looked right at me, then he smiled one of those infuriating grins that men like him perfected before they were even old enough to drive.
“What exactly is your role here?” he asked slowly, his voice more of a lazy drawl than an actual, professional inquiry. “Are you his assistant? Secretary? Why am I late?”
I blinked hard. “Excuse me?”
His gaze dragged over me in a way that would’ve been insulting if he wasn’t so obviously entertained by all of this.“You’re fetching coffee, right? Or is it notes? You look like you keep excellent notes.”
Heat pricked my cheeks, but I managed to keep my sweet, practiced, and very fake smile firmly on my lips. “Try again.”
He tilted his head, eyes twinkling like he was delighted about me playing along with his ridiculous game. “Maybe you’re the distraction. They bring you in to rattle the competition, right? You bat your lashes to throw us off balance? It’s effective. Well, almost.”
Frustration tightened my gut. I’d only just met him and already, I wanted nothing more than to slap the grin right off his face. “I amnotanyone’s assistant.”
“Of course not.” His lips twitched as he let his gaze wonder over me again, slow and deliberate. “You’re very professional.”
The air between us crackled. I could practically feel the client slipping away from me, but I was not going to let this man bulldoze me. Not here. Not now. Not ever.
Before I could say anything else though, one of the attorney snapped his folder shut and from the corner of my eye, I saw them beginning to stand. One, the head honcho, looked at me, shooting me an apologetic smile.
“Perhaps we should reconvene after my client has had more time to consider the offer.”
The others murmured their agreement, gathering their papers and within seconds, they were on their way to the door. “Gentlemen, wait.”
The sound of the Westwood’s voice froze the attorneys mid-step and he hadn’t even raised it. One of his hands was tucked casually into the pocket of his tailored slacks, the other holding a sleek black folder.
As much as I hated to admit it, even tome,it looked like he’d been born to be here. Like this wasn’t a negotiation so much as a foregone conclusion. “One hundred million. Cash.”
Everyone in the room stopped breathing—myself included. Westwood’s grin widened, as if he knew he was about to deal the death blow to my offer. “If you drag this process out, trying to sell it all piece by piece, it’ll take years.”
He took a step closer to the client, his voice filled with faux sympathy and understanding when he focused his gaze on the scrawny little man. “You’ll have attorneys’ fees coming out of your ears, be stuck in endless due diligence, and that’s not even to mention the tax complications. It’s a nightmare, trust me. I’m here to make this easy. It can all be over today. Right now, infact.” His smile broadened into one that was downright charming. “Just one signature and you walk out of here with more money than you’ve seen in your entire life.”
