The Company. I can hear the capitalization when he says the word. Such a harmless-sounding euphemism.
“There is a board.” His fork waves in the air. “But you’d come in at the… second tier, if you like. That lets us grow without constraints. I’m first tier, so you’d report to me, just as you do now.” He gives me a pointed look. “I’ll be the one sponsoring you.”
I take a sip of my water, giving myself time to think. “Why?”
“The key question, I suppose.” A shrug of one shoulder. “Influence, leverage, power. Money then flows easily enough. I assume you can see how that works.”
I could indeed. For starters, cross-company access would certainly accelerate the Greenstone deal, and that was based only on a preliminary read of the file.
“Let’s say I’m interested.”
“Of course you’re interested.”
I nod, conceding that one. “What do I do, just say yes right now?”
“Tomorrow, I’ll want you to meet Vincent andAntonio, two others at my level. But in essence, the decision’s mine.” He pauses, regarding me thoughtfully. “Do you only drink water?”
The segue catches me by surprise. “Not at all.”
“Good. A man with no vices is… well, it’s good to show a little humanity.” His fork waves at me again. “That private investigator fiancée of yours. Victoria Callahan, right?”
“Uh-huh.” I don’t remember telling him she was a PI. Must have, and forgotten.
“We encourage partners at our social events. Makes it more like family, don’t you agree?”
“Sure.” Utterly secondary to the power he’s offering me.
He hears the note in my voice. “I mean it, Alexander. We don’t offer these places lightly. A married man is a more stable one, and that’s important to us.” He nods to confirm his own words. “You’ll be tying the knot shortly, I presume?”
We haven’t even set a date. “Of course.”
“Good, good.” He lifts his wine glass, toasting me. “To your success, then.” His eyes narrow. “It reflects on mine, and I don’t say that lightly.”
“Vicky?”
The house is quiet.
I throw my keys into the bowl on top of the dresser, noting hers are absent. Car’s not in thegarage, then.
Damn. What’s the point of leaving work on time for once, if she’s not even here?
I suppose I could’ve called. Or sent a WhatsApp. But I wanted to surprise her. It would’ve neutralized the birthday problem. I haven’t forgiven Rita for that.
Perhaps I’ll cook for her. That would go a long way. I can get groceries delivered and have dinner ready for when she returns. A lobster pasta, perhaps. She’s always been a fan.
I remove my suit jacket as I walk into the kitchen, laying it over a chair. There’s a faint smell already present, slightly off. Greasy. It takes me a moment to track it to the oven, where a half-cooked Beef Wellington sits in its own puddle, the duxelles disintegrating and the pastry limp.
I pull it out, placing it on the stove top with a frown. It’s not like her to leave a mess.
Shit. She cooked that for me—for us—and didn’t even finish it.
That’s fine. I’ll clean it up, make dinner, open a nice bottle to celebrate a deal closed and a promotion. This whole palaver will be forgotten in no time, especially with a long weekend birthday trip to the Bahamas. That will set things right. The promise of it, anyway. Maybe not this weekend, but one soon.
I make my way upstairs, unbuttoning my shirt as I go, seeking clothes more suitable to cook in than my custom white poplin. There’s a strange scent here, too, delicately floral. The bathroom door is open, the tub full. It’s such an unusual sight that I pause in thethreshold, staring at it in confusion. A towel lies crumpled on the floor; that’s not like Vicky either.
Then I notice the lingerie on the bed, and the white sheet of paper in the center. A small shape rests on it, catching the light.
I know before I cross to the bed with quick strides.
