“This is internal,” I say, though I’m not surprised. “Very internal.”
Sylvester’s chin dips. “Acquired this morning. Their systems aren’t as impressive as their reputation.”
Translation: He breached one of Europe’s oldest banking empires before breakfast.
I open the file.
Charts.
Balance sheets.
Cash flow statements.
And then—the third-quarter losses. Significant ones.
“Laurent is bleeding,” Sylvester says, lowering his voice as if the city itself might be listening.
I skim another page.
He’s right.
The numbers are worse than the whispers circulating across Europe.
I feel a slow, dark smile pull at the corner of my mouth.
Interesting.
“Henri Laurent has been covering this for months,” Sylvester continues. “Market projections say he can’t do it much longer. If the wrong investor pulls out, the entire structure collapses.”
I lean back in my chair, gaze drifting to the skyline. Manhattan reflects in the glass—razor-sharp, merciless, honest.
Unlike most men.
“Laurent built an empire on old money and older pride.” I flip another page. “The pride is the part that kills them.”
Sylvester shifts slightly. “You want the full acquisition plan drafted?”
Not yet.
I flip to the next page, and then the next—until something makes my hand still.
At the back of the file is a photograph.
Vivian Laurent.
The heiress I never forgot.
The one who looked at me like temptation wrapped in silk…and then left claw marks across the last shred of control I possessed.
The stables.
The dark corridor.
Her breath on my throat.
Her body trembling beneath mine.
The way she cracked open under my hands, soft and desperate and perfect.
