He looks at me, his eyes gleaming.
"How fast can you act like a fiancée who just found out her beloved is being betrayed?"
I smile. "Brooks, I can cry on command. I can throw a drink with ninety percent accuracy. What do you need?"
"I need you to be charming," he says. "I need you to get Mrs. Aston talking about her renovation. In front of the chairman."
"I can do that."
"And then," Brooks says, his voice dropping, "I need you to stand back and watch me burn him to the ground."
"With pleasure."
He reaches out. He grabs my hand, the one I used to slam the phone onto his desk. He squeezes it.
"Thank you," he says.
"Don't thank me yet," I say, my voice a little shaky. "Wait until we survive dinner."
"We'll survive," he says. And this time, he says "we" like it means something. Like we're a unit.
He turns back to the desk, grabbing his laptop. "I need to call legal. I need to get these IP addresses verified. Stay here."
"I'm not going anywhere," I say.
"Good." He pauses, looking back at me over his shoulder. "And Ivy?"
"Yeah?"
"You were right about the scone."
I grin. "I'm always right, Taylor. You should put that in a memo."
He laughs, and the sound fills the library, chasing away the shadows of the morning.
I sit down in one of the leather armchairs, pulling my legs up under me. I watch him work. I watch him direct his legal team, his voice crisp and authoritative. I watch him turn the tide of the war.
And as I sit there, plotting the downfall of a multimillionaire I barely know, I realize Savvy was right.
I am totally gone for him. And the scary part? I think he might be gone for me, too.
The dinnerat the Southampton Beach Club is a quiet affair, which means it is terrifying.
Twelve people. One long table. Candlelight flickering inside hurricane lamps. The rhythmic, soothing sound of waves crashing in the distance, providing a soundtrack for the execution.
Royce Aston is sitting three seats down from us. He is wearing a white dinner jacket and looking smug, like a cat that has eaten the canary and also stole the canary's retirement fund. His wife, Bitsy, is next to him, wearing enough diamonds to sink a small yacht.
I am wearing black. It felt appropriate for a funeral.
"Relax," Brooks murmurs against my ear as the waiter pours the Sancerre. "You're vibrating."
"I'm anticipating," I whisper back, keeping my smile fixed for the benefit of the room. "When do we strike?"
"Wait for the soup course."
The soup arrives. Lobster bisque, rich and smelling of sherry.
I pick up my spoon. I glance at Brooks. He gives a microscopic nod.
