“A glass of white wine would be nice, thanks.”
The bartender nods. “Would the 2020 Puligny-Montrachet be suitable?”
I open my mouth to respond when a subtle shift rolls through the soles of my feet. A gentle pull. Just enough to make my balance recalibrate.
I glance toward the closest window, my heart thudding an extra beat as the marina lights begin to shift.
We’re leaving the dock. Without warning or consultation.
What the hell is my father up to?
Then it clicks. This is one of his soft parenting plays. I walked out on him this morning, so now he’s cutting off my means of escape. Stripping away my ability to leave before our upcoming confrontation is complete.
Annoyance flares, chased by a reluctant flicker of admiration. It’s manipulative. Calculated. Smart. “The Puligny will be fine.”
The bartender pours with practiced ease and hands me the glass. I curl my fingers around the chilled stem, the cold grounding me.
“Do you need anything else before we continue?” Elena asks, reclaiming my attention.
I take a sip of the expensive liquid, the smoothness coating my tongue. “No. I’m ready to see my father.”
Elena turns without another word, guiding me through a wide hall.
We pass a formal dining space—ten stunning white chairs surrounding a polished wooden table, the gloss gleaming under a sculpted chandelier—and then a sweeping spiral staircase I’m certain leads to an obscenely decadent stateroom.
“They’re waiting for you in the study,” Elena says.
I stop short.
They?
I tighten my grip on my phone. The other dampens around the wineglass.
Elena keeps walking, oblivious to the landmine she’s laid.
Up ahead the faint murmur of male voices carries over the subtle churn of the engine. What lies ahead isn’t a father-daughter feud. It’s something that involves an audience.
I glance back from where I came, considering my options, reconfiguring what might be happening.
“Ms. Cross?” Elena prompts, turning and finding me frozen.
Shit.
I abandon the wineglass on a nearby console and steel myself against what’s to come.
Whatever it is, I can handle it. I know CrossPoint like I know my own pulse—every pressure point, every weakness and strength. I’ve spent my life watching my father build on from his father’s empire, studying his moves like gospel. If he taught me anything, it’s how to stand my ground when the stakes are highest.
I close the space between me and Elena, who stands before an open doorway, then step past her, forcing my stride to stay even as I cross the threshold.
The study is all polished wood and understated opulence. White bookshelves are lined with hardcovers. A decanter tray gleams in the corner atop a bar cart. A plush cream patterned rug anchors the center of the room.
My father sits facing away from me in an expensive, upholstered chair, his shoulders rigid.
And across from him—behind a glossy oak desk, in a high-backed leather chair with brass trim that looks sickeningly like a throne—is Raffael Cavallo.
The sight of him punches through me.
What the hell is this?
