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He doesn’t even know my name.
Or maybe he does know my name and doesn’t give a roaring shit about my personality. Maybe I’m just candy for his arm. A one-of-a-kind accessory. But I’ve spent my entire life as an object; like hell am I going to screw another man who wants me for my looks and nothing else.
Make it eight. That’s the number of men who have collectively ruined my night. And yet this one—this fucking guy—might be the worst one because, again, he’s so fucking fine.
“You’ve got to be kidding me.” I narrow my eyes into daggers. “You think you can sidle over to me, touch me without my permission, and then give me a half-assed command to strip for you and actually get what you want?”
It’s his turn to freeze. His brow knots and he continues to stare at me, his eyes seeking. His lips part like he wants to speak, but doesn’t know what to say.
“Let me be clear,” I go on before I gesture over him. “All of this looks good, but you’re delusional if you think you’re anywhere close to my league. So, kindly fuck right off and save us both the embarrassment.”
“That’s how you’re going to speak to me?” he finally responds. This time, his expression looks borderline amused. He lets out an annoying scoff before he shakes his head, never breaking eye contact. “You have no clue how many people have tried to grandstand with me over the years. You think you faze me, honey? You don’t faze me.”
Honey, ugh.
It’s on.
“Faze you? I’m not interested in testing the resilience of the paper-thin shell around your ego. I just want you to get your entitled ass away from me.” I wave my hand over his shoulder, practically shooing him off. “Go on. I’m too young for you anyway.”
“I’m forty-three,” he clarifies with a frown…and I’m reluctant to admit his body looks phenomenal for a man in his forties.
“Cool, Jeffrey Epstein,” I say instead, refusing to give him any reprieve. “And I’m twenty-eight and far from interested.”
“And yet you’ve had every opportunity to walk away, but you’re still here staring at me like you want to lick the cologne off my skin.”
He didn’t hesitate, and I nearly freeze. It’s been ages since a man threw my shit back in my face.
Yeah, it’s so fucking on.
“You are by far the most abhorrent man I’ve ever spoken to, which is saying something because my father used to have Bernard Ebbers over for dinner once a month,” I counter, bringing up one of my father’s old friends who turned out to be a white-collar criminal.
The man actually chuckles and is about to respond when my older brother, Davis, suddenly appears. He’s flushed, but he hastily interjects with, “Hey, I see you two have met and that we’re already on the topic of Bernard Ebbers. Awesome.”
I narrow my eyes at my brother, who—as is typical—looks like he’s barely holding back a nervous breakdown. “I don’t even know who this is,” I explain to Davis. “I was standing here, and he had the utter audacity to come over here and—”
“Gus Winter is the CEO of FundRight, Julia,” Davis interjects, the desperation now visibly apparent on his face. “As in, the company I just flew to London to meet with.”
I examine my brother, whose blond hair is askew like he ran across the terrace to intervene. Unlike me, Davis—our father’s pride and joy—works for Davenport-Ridgeway. His job as a vice president is the single most important thing to him. As a result, he often forgets that I know jack shit about the day to day at the company—and therefore have no idea what the hell he’s talking about. “Okay, and? I don’t track you, Davis. I don’t know where you’re traveling for work.”
“Is this your girlfriend? Your wife?” The man, Gus Winter, shoots a look at Davis.
“My sister,” Davis answers wearily, like it’s the most depressing truth ever.
Rude.
“Your sister,” Gus remarks. His eyes track between Davis and me. “How fun. Now tell me, which of you is going to tell your father that his beloved daughter just tanked the FundRight acquisition?”
I’m embarrassed by how long it takes me to put two and two together: Gus is the CEO of FundRight, and Davis must be in the middle of brokering an acquisition on behalf of Davenport-Ridgeway.
Oh shit.
Oh shit.
I may not work for my father’s company, but I know better than to screw around when it comes to Davenport-Ridgeway. Acquisitions are a holding company’s bread and butter. Literally all Davenport-Ridgeway does is buy other companies and reap the profits. My stomach lurches when I realize what I’ve done. This mistake could cost billions—maybe tens of billions.
“Oh…” I mouth before trailing off.
“Have a good evening, Ridgeways,” Gus sneers with a final burning glare before he heads in the opposite direction, leaving me alone with Davis. As he goes, I watch his figure disappear into the sea of tuxedos, tall, strapping, and so angry.
