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“You’re a psychopath,” Davis grits out, turning to face me, cheeks reddening. Desperate, he raises his chin to see where Gus went and moves to follow him.
In my twenty-eight years of pissing off men, the most important thing I’ve learned is to give them space to regrow their spines. “Let him walk,” I advise, catching Davis by the arm. “He needs to cool off. I said a number of horrible things before you showed up.”
“A number?” my brother hisses. “Things more horrible than comparing someone to Bernard Ebbers?”
“I may have made a Jeffrey Epstein comment,” I admit grimly. “Oh, don’t look at me like that. He came over and hit on me. It was completely vile.”
Davis widens his eyes and stammers for words. “Julia, I cannot deal with this right now. You have no idea what kind of position you’ve just put me in.”
But I do get it, even if I don’t show it. I don’t work for the company, but I do recognize its influence.
More alarming, however, is the look on Davis’s face. I love my brother—and I know he’s the living embodiment of anxiety itself. This face? Not good. Definitely not good.
“Look, I’m sorry,” I offer, hoping my sincerity comes through. “We’ll salvage this somehow. But right now, cocktail hour is ending and you’re due to make a speech in thirty minutes, so you need to get it together. Can you do that? Do I need to grab you a Xanax?”
His glare is one for the record books. “No, but do me a favor, and literally never speak to anyone again.”
I’m generally bulletproof, but when it comes to the few people I love, I hate disappointing them. Davis’s words sting, but I don’t let it show. Silently, I nod. I can’t always get the last word.
Davis motions for me to follow him to our table and I do, knowing tonight is likely the first in a series of horrible nights for him—nights he’ll spend working late to salvage what I broke. Responsibility is one of the consequences of having the keys to our father’s kingdom—consequences neither I nor my twin brother Kieran endure because we don’t work at Davenport-Ridgeway.
Fuck that though. I wish I could fix it. Davis deserves it, especially with all he puts up with: our father’s expectations, Kieran’s hedonistic escapades, and…yeah, all my bullshit.
I have few loyalties—and my family is one. The last thing I want is to let any of them down.
Fuck those seven men for setting me up to fail tonight. Seriously, fuck them.
But most of all, fuck Gus Winter.
Fuck him.
Chapter 2: Gus
I’m losing my mind.
For the tenth time today, I stare at a picture of Julia Ridgeway on my phone. The current image is her wearing a skimpy red bikini and posing on the bow of a yacht in Mykonos. The bikini barely does the work to cover her, and instead accentuates her sun-kissed skin and lush, perfect breasts. The expression on her face is pure smug confidence—like she’s saying, You’ll have to settle for looking and fantasizing because you’re never going to get me to the countless men who I’m sure have saved this image from Google to their phones.
I don’t know if I’m staring at the picture out of acrimony or lust, frankly. Nobody—nobody—speaks to me the way she did. Nobody rejects me the way she did. Hell, nobody rejects me at all. I’ve never encountered a more infuriating woman in my life.
…Nor have I ever encountered a woman so disturbingly, unfairly beautiful.
She’s holding a pale purple iced coffee in my favorite picture of her. It was the fourth result on Google images, but if the people at Google were smart they’d make it their company logo. The image is unforgettable; it would keep users on Google for hours longer, I bet.
Allegedly, when Julia posted this picture on her Instagram, the coffee shop she tagged drummed up so much business, they now regularly sell out of coffee before noon.
A coffee shop. Running out of coffee.
In the picture, she’s seated at a table, sunglasses perched on her head in her long, wind-swept blond hair. The tip of a straw rests between her plump lips and she smiles coyly at the camera. Her big doe eyes are crinkled with laughter, and her free hand toys with her dress’s thin strap. Her body is all swooping curves that dive into a slender waist, giving her a shape that makes me clench my jaw so hard it aches. Admittedly, this image is one of the tamest pictures of her I’ve seen. Julia Ridgeway is a lot of things, but shy clearly isn’t one of them.
And yet, this one is my favorite because it looks candid—like someone managed to catch her with her guard down for once.
I close the image before I impassively lean back against the plush couch by the windows in Davis Ridgeway’s impressive corner office. Davis Ridgeway the second, that is. His father, Davis Ridgeway Sr., is nowhere to be seen. He hasn’t actually worked at Davenport-Ridgeway for four years, but he keeps his thumb on the pulse of the company, I’ve heard. Apparently, an audience with his eldest son is as good as meeting with the man himself.
Davis Ridgeway the second is exactly what a billionaire business tycoon’s son should be: put together, practiced, and a touch neurotic about disappointing his father. One day when I have a son of my own, he’ll be a billionaire business tycoon’s son—and I frankly wouldn’t mind if he were like Davis Ridgeway.
But at the moment, Davis needs to kowtow to me. Beg me. Fear me. Frankly, he should get on his hands and knees, Hugo Boss suit be damned, and kiss the tops of my shoes. He should grovel like his life depends on it. Hell, maybe his life does depend on it, because if our verbal agreement for Davenport-Ridgeway to purchase FundRight falls through, I’m assuming Davis Ridgeway Sr. will go ten plagues of Egypt on his son.
It’s what I would do, naturally.
