“It will be a tasteful anniversary party. More of like a thank-you—a celebration of love.”
“Unless you really think it’s a bad idea?” My half-siblings stare at me.
I shrug. “I mean, I think it could be nice. I think Mom and Frank—er, Dad—will like it.”
Well, they will if I’m not there. A reminder of what my mom had to lose so she could get her happy ending.
I’min a foul mood on Tuesday when I park in the Svensson Investment garage.
“Fuckers—I have to pay a hundred dollars for parking? Fucking racket,” I fume.
I had my assistant purchase the most expensive gift off the registry link Dani sent me, and the box is absurdly huge, with a big gold-and-silver bow that bounces as I walk across the expansive lobby to the Michelin-star restaurant at the base of the Svensson Investment tower.
I’m early. I stand outside the restaurant, holding the box and cursing Dani, my siblings, my dad, and everyone I’ve come in contact with in the last month.
“Do you have a kidnapped girl hidden in there or something?”
I bite back a curse and almost drop the box.
Carl Svensson is staring at me.
“How could you even joke about something like that?” I demand, willing my pulse to go back to normal.
He doesn’t know. He’s just a shit-stirrer.
“What do you want?” I ask.
“I work here—this is my company.”
“I dare you to say that to Greg.”
“I run this place. And you better not be here asking for a handout,” Carl sneers.
“Hardly. I’m here for my—” I choke on the word. “Girlfriend.”
Carl’s mouth flattens. His cold gray eyes stare at me.
“You know, we wondered why Danielle Lockwood’s laptop was at your address.”
He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know. He’s just being a dick. He does not know. Be cool.
I shrug. “Do you not let your employees date? Or…” I step up to him. “Were you trying to save her for yourself?”
“We have a no-touching policy for employees. And I’m engaged.”
“You? My condolences to your fiancée.”
“My condolences to yours.”
“We’re not—”
“All her friends are engaged or married. Statistically, she’s expecting to be next.” He nods. “Presents go on the table. Drinks are not included, so open up a bar tab.”
Dani’s talking to a gaggle of boss babes who populate Wall Street—the ones who live in pencil skirts and sky-high heels.
She’s showing them pieces of identical-looking paper.
I dump the present and saunter over to her, my hands in my pockets.
