“Split,” I say.
They vanish toward the elevator bank. I turn the other way, buttoning my suit jacket, rolling my neck to release the tension.
Transform back into the golden boy.
I step fully into the hallway, letting the door close behind me with a quiet, solid click.
“Whoa,” I say, stopping short as the security team rounds the corner, the assistant leading the charge.
“Mr. Reid?” The head guard pulls up short, chest heaving. “This is a restricted area.”
I hold up my phone, looking bored. Confused.
“I know,” I say, voice smooth as the ice downstairs. “I was waiting for my father. His text said to meet him in his office ten minutes ago.” I gesture vaguely at the door I just exited. “He wasn’t there. I got tired of waiting.”
The lie is simple. Plausible. Alistair Reid makes people wait all the time.
The assistant’s eyes dart to the door, then back to me. She looks flustered, hair escaping its bun. “We had a disturbance down the hall. Mr. Reid is… unavailable.”
“Clearly,” I say dryly. “I’m heading out. Tell him to call me.”
I walk past them. I don’t run. I don’t look back. I walk with the entitled, heavy stride of a man who owns the building.
As I pass the nameplate on the wall—ALISTAIR REID, Director of Strategic Philanthropy—I slow.
My hand reaches out, almost of its own accord. My fingers find the expensive gold pen resting in the small groove of the placard frame. The one he uses to sign checks. The one he uses to sign intent-to-cut letters.
I slide it into my palm.
I don’t just take it. I press my thumb against the clip—the gold-plated steel meant to hold it to a pocket—and bend it back.
It resists for a second, biting into my skin, before it snaps with a sharpping.
I drop the broken piece on the carpet and shove the ruined pen into my pocket.
Petty? Maybe. But it feels like a start.
I keep walking.
By the time I hit the lobby doors, I’ve pulled my phone out. I open the file Genny forwarded to the group chat.
I need to see it.
I scroll past the rider, past the financial spreadsheets, until I find the email Genny mentioned.
Beatrice:Alistair, I saw Declan with the coach's daughter at the fundraiser. He's clearly obsessed. You need to handle the coach, or I'm telling my father the merger is off. She is a "complication" we don't need.
Complication.
I stop in the middle of the sidewalk. The gray light of the afternoon washes over me.
It wasn’t just him.
Beatrice saw me look at Talia—once, twice—and she didn't get jealous. Instead of getting sad, she got strategic. Seeing a weakness, she emailed my father instructions on how to exploit it.
She isn’t just his choice for me; sheishim.
A cold, hollow horror settles in my stomach. I was going to marry this woman. I was going to let them maneuver me into a life where love is a liability and people are just leverage.
