I brush crumbs off my hands. “You want me to meet your CFO?”
“You’re my wife.” He says it like it’s obvious. “He should meet you.”
Right. Thewife.
“What kind of meetings?”
“Acquisitions. Real estate portfolio review. I can promise you that the meetings will be boring.” He leans against the counter. “But including you in business meetings just reinforces that our relationship is serious.”
I rinse my plate. “What should I wear?”
“Business attire. Conservative.” His eyes drag over my pajamas—an old college T-shirt and shorts. “You have an hour.”
An hour later, I’m dressed in a navy sheath dress and heels, sitting in the back of the town car while Silas answers emails on his phone. The drive to the airfield takes twenty minutes, and by the time we arrive, the jet is already prepped and waiting.
The jet is bigger than I expected. Leather seats, polished wood, and a bed in the back. I wonder if he’s ever used it for something other than sleeping.
Then I immediately make myself stop wondering.
Silas sits across from me, with his laptop open, reading contracts or reports or whatever billionaires read at thirty thousand feet.
I watch the clouds.
He glances up. “Nervous?”
“Should I be?”
“No.” He closes the laptop. “You’ll be fine.”
“You sound sure.”
“I am.” An almost imperceptible smile flashes across his lips. “And if anyone asks how we met?—”
“We reconnected a few months ago,” I finish. “We’re childhood friends.”
“Good.”
The plane levels out, and I unbuckle to grab water from the galley. When I return, Silas is back on his laptop, and I pull out my phone to text my best friend.
Me:On a private jet.
Renata:Excuse me?
Me:Business trip with Silas. Meeting his CFO. Playing the wife.
Renata:You’re living a romance novel. I’m so jealous I could scream.
Me:It’s work.
Renata:Work that involves private jets and hot billionaires. Don’t pretend you hate this.
I don’t respond because she’s right.
By the time we land, I’ve rehearsed our story three more times in my head. The car is waiting on the tarmac, and Silas helps me down the jet stairs with a hand on my elbow.
Richard Milo is waiting in the lobby when we arrive at the office building.
He’s in his mid-fifties, with silver hair, and dressed in a perfectly tailored suit. He shakes Silas’s hand first, then turnsto me with the kind of smile men use when they’re deciding if you’re worth their time.
