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Her giggle is genuine, but brief. “Mr. Bishop sent me. Your ticket’s been upgraded. The valet will take your luggage, and I’m here to escort you to the lounge.”
The lounge. I would protest, but at this point, I’ll go anywhere to get away from this crowd.
Eagerly, I follow on autopilot as my nerves simmer beneath the surface. “Is Mr. Bishop in the lounge?” I ask.
“I don’t believe so.”
We breeze through two sets of glass doors, and bam—five-star luxury. Champagne flows like a river, and there’s every kind of food imaginable, but I’m too anxious to eat.
I sink into a cushy seat by the window, feeling the tension in my shoulders start to ease. The woman hands me a small envelope. “Mr. Bishop asked me to give you this. But don’t open it until you’re in the air. Enjoy your flight.”
“Thanks.”
After a short while and three champagnes, boarding begins.
Doubt sinks in that much more, but still, I shuffle toward the gate, one slow step at a time.
I’m in first class, the seat so plush it could easily be a bed. I scan the cabin, hoping—no, expecting—to see him.
But he isn’t here. And when an older woman with a MacBook settles into the loungey seat next to me, I know he’s not coming.
The envelope in my hand feels like a live wire, begging to betorn open. My fingers twitch, but I do as I’m told, waiting until the plane lifts off.
His handwriting is bold, strong, and achingly familiar. My heart skips a beat as I read the words.
Jules,
Nae maeumeun dangsini issneun gose isseoyo.
Translation:My heart is where you are.
CHAPTER 52
Brian
“It’s a custom desk,” Trent says, his hand gesturing lazily toward the massive piece of furniture. We’re all seated at the far end of the conference room—me, Mark, Zac, and Trent—waiting as he continues, like the world hinges on this piece of wood.
Or the future of our partnership.
His voice drips with admiration as he gives it a lingering glance.
I clasp my hands, offering an appreciative nod. “It’s exceptional.”
“It reeks of shrimp,” Trent mutters, completely deadpan.
I stifle a laugh, barely holding it together. “I’m really sorry about that,” I murmur low, clearing my throat. “Had a lot on my mind.”
His gaze sharpens. “I counted eight.” The flatness of his tone makes it clear he’s not joking. “Did I get them all?”
Honestly, I have no idea. I mindlessly ate as Harrison’s kids practically force-fed me, insisting I needed to eat.
But since we’re about to forge one of the biggest businessalliances in the western hemisphere, I can’t exactly say that. Instead, I clear my throat. “There might be one or two still lurking in the cigar box.”
Mark pinches the bridge of his nose as Zac, as casual as ever, leans back and asks, “Cohibas?”
“Mayan Sicars,” Trent mutters, shaking his head as if he’s still mourning their loss. “Hand-rolled. Aged to perfection. And now...” He lets out a long, frustrated breath. “Shark chum.” His gaze refocuses, sweeping across the table. “But I’m sure that’s not why you’re all here.”
Mark leans forward, his voice calm but firm. “We need to get the spotlight off our company. Permanently. There’s no shortage of news out there, so why not shift the focus?”
