Dom stays quiet.
Smart man.
I slam the file shut. “Get me every detail from that meeting. Verbatim. I want the audio. I want the minutes. I don’t care who you have to blow to get it, get it.”
“Already on it,” Dom replies before heading out.
Smart move since I’m clearly unhinged with my obsession.
The moment the door clicks shut, I stand so fast my chair skids back.
She looks tired.
Good.
Let her feel a fraction—a sliver—of what I felt when I woke up one morning to find her gone, replaced by a note.
Fuck.
Even now, five years later, it still feels like I’ve been stabbed in the chest.
I push the file aside and grab the next stack waiting for me.
Financial analysis.
Market reports.
Risk evaluations.
The kind of data you could build a war out of, and I will.
I drag my finger down the first column.
Danforth cash flow.
Bleeding.
Hard.
Laughing under my breath, I flip another page. A graph shows a sharp downward drop. The kind that ends careers. The kind that destroys dynasties.
“Oh, sweetheart.” I trace the line. “Your castle is cracking.”
The fire at the steel plant was the first domino.
And now the reports show exactly what I expected.
They are hemorrhaging money, and the investors are panicking.
The downfall will be delicious.
I take my time reading every page, savoring the numbers, and when the door bursts open without a knock, I don’t flinch. I know who it is. Only one person in this house would enter without permission.
Rafe strolls in like he owns the place.
He glances around the room, eyes landing on the open bottle of tequila, then the half-shredded report on the floor.
“Jesus.” Rafe whistles, leaning against the doorframe. “Did you lose a fight with your office again, or is this part of the aesthetic you’re curating? I thought you only destroyed the warehouse, but this is making me think you need anger management classes.”
