I didn't wait for confirmation before ending the call.
The screen went dark, and I dragged a hand down my face. The stubble on my jaw rasped against my palm. I needed to shave. I needed to sleep. I needed this merger to finalize so I could stop justifying every expense to shareholders who wouldn't know innovation if it knocked them over.
The office door burst open.
Fritz didn't knock. He never did.
My head snapped up, irritation flaring hot in my chest. "You missed the meeting."
Fritz had already stopped, his dark blond hair disheveled like he'd been running. His eyes darted to the blank monitor, then back to me.
"Good. So it’s finished?"
"Clearly."
He crossed the room in three strides and dropped onto the leather sofa at the rear of my office. He sprawled there like he owned the place, one arm slung over the back, his phone clutched in his other hand. His knee bounced.
I turned back to my computer, pulling up the Singapore file. Numbers blurred together. My temples throbbed.
"Henry."
"I'm working."
"You need to see this."
"I need to finish this report."
"Henry." His voice dropped, went serious in a way that made my shoulders tense. "Now."
I closed the laptop harder than necessary. The sound echoed through the office like a gunshot.
Fritz was already moving, rounding my desk with his phone extended. The screen glowed as he pressed play.
"Security footage," he said. "From this morning."
I took the phone. The timestamp read 09:26. The camera angle showed the drawing room, the one thatoverlooked the garden square. The quality was crisp, color, and the kind of footage that caught every detail.
And there she was.
Presley Prince.
She danced across the parquet floor in bare feet, her phone pressed to her ear. Her mouth moved, animated, her free hand gesturing wildly at nothing.
I couldn't hear what she was saying, but I saw her laughing.
My throat tightened.
She wore an oversized shirt that hung off one pale shoulder. The fabric swallowed her frame, the hem hitting mid-thigh, where my gaze stayed for longer than it ought to. She spun, and the shirt billowed, showing the curve of her waist, and the dip where her hip met her leg.
"What’s she wearing?" The words came out rougher than I intended.
Fritz leaned against my desk, arms crossed. "Etienne's shirt. I saw him give it to her this morning before he left for rugby training."
My fingers gripped the phone tighter. The edge bit into my palm.
"He gave her his shirt."
"Scented it too, no doubt." Fritz's tone was casual, but his eyes tracked my reaction. "You know how he is."
