He exhales, leaning back in his chair, fingers tapping once against the mahogany desk as if he’s weighing a future neither of us can see yet. “Where is she?”
“Cami?”
He shoots me a look. “Who else, Mother Teresa?”
“My place,” I say. “Since the gala.”
“Jesus Christ.” He rubs his jaw. “This is…a lot, Ryder. I need to speak with her before I give you two any kind of blessing.” He exhales, quieter this time. “Though something tells me anything I say won’t matter. But if you two continue with…whatever this is”—he pauses, jaw tightening—“and it gets serious, I needto know you’re staying on board. Here. No cutting back. No disappearing like you mentioned this summer.”
I nod, heartbeat thudding steady and stubborn in my chest.
“You have my word.” I pause. “But, there’s more.”
“More?” His fist meets the desk. “Don’t tell me she’s pregnant. I swear to God?—”
“No. It’s Jenna.”
Mont goes still. “What about her?”
“She has photos.”
A hard glint flashes in his eyes. “Photos of…?”
“Me and Cami at Lark & Harlow,” I say. “Last night at dinner. Laughing. Close. My hand on her thigh.” My throat locks, but I force the words out. “Enough to spark rumors. Enough to light up the press.”
“Jesus.” The word slips out of him like a warning.
“She threatened to leak them,” I continue, “to theGazette. And to you.”
His stare fixes on me, unblinking, as if he’s trying to determine whether he heard correctly or stepped into his worst nightmare.
“She said she’d run with a headline like:Luxe founder leaves wife for twenty-something heiress.” I look away briefly. “Our divorce was never publicly announced. Most people think we’re still married. She’s using that to make this look dirty. Spin the whole damn narrative onto me.”
A deep furrow cuts across his brows. “That would be an atomic headline.”
“I know. So does she.” I pull in a slow breath. “But that’s not the end of it.”
“Keep talking,” he says, a darker note creeping into his voice.
“She gave me forty-eight hours to take Westbury Place off the market.” My hands tighten on my knees. “And sign it over to her.”
His jaw goes murder-cold. “And…?”
“And Luxe,” I say quietly. “She wants that too, all of it.”
Mont shoots to his feet. “Yourentirecompany?”
“Jenna’s out for blood, Mont. Wants to burn me down.” My gaze meets his and holds. “And she’s using Cami to strike the match.”
“Did she see the photos?” He sits back down.
“Yes,” I reply, quickly. “I’d never keep anything from Cami.”
His eyes shut, shoulders rising once as the weight of it all settles into the room like smoke. When he looks at me again, something lethal has taken root.
“That woman,” he seethes, “just made the biggest mistake of her life.” He leans forward, elbows braced on the desk, Beaumont-Group steel sliding into place. “She wants to weaponize the media? Use Frankie? Please tell me you have a plan.”
I straighten, meeting his stare without flinching. “I do.”
