Page 20 of Wicked Fortune

“Or to protect his sisters and his brother. Or Nikki. Or Damien. Ash has that fire. We both know it. So does Holt.”

She bites her lower lip before saying, “You’re sure?”

I nod. “And with a man like that, you either trust him or you run like hell. I can’t do either.”

“Ari—”

“No.” The word is soft as a prayer. “I’m going to walk into the lion’s den tomorrow, and I’ll do whatever I have to do—play whatever role I have to play—but somehow, someway, I will learn the truth. For Jenny.”

For a moment, Bree says nothing, then she meets my eyes and nods. “Yes,” she says. “For Jenny.”

EIGHT

Matthew Holt pressed his palms flat against the marble countertop of his private bath, then leaned forward, looking past his own reflection in the window to the glow that was spreading over the vista. Pale gold, soft pink, even a hint of lavender—the morning light as it illuminated the backlot of Hardline Entertainment’s Burbank headquarters and studio.

From this twelfth floor vantage point—the highest on the lot—he could see most of the complex that he’d built over the last two decades. But in his imagination, he still saw the undeveloped land that he’d purchased, betting his every penny on the down payment, then mortgaging himself to the hilt. But he hadn’t wavered. He’d moved to LA with a dream to build something huge. Something his. And through a combination of ego, bold determination, and the seed money he’d worked so hard to acquire, he’d turned acres of underdeveloped land into a Hollywood force to be reckoned with.

Hollywood? Hell, the world. His empire reached every facet of the entertainment industry from live theater to recording artists to podcasts and movies and television and more.

An entire life built on the profit of his imagination and dreams. And a few unique skills that Fate had forced him to acquire.

He took a step back, casting his gaze around the elegant private bathroom that he’d demanded be included in the architectural plans eleven years ago when Hardline Entertainment moved out of the original cluster of trailers that had once served as office space.

He recalled the day he’d looked at the blueprints that Jackson Steele, his architect, had drawn up. They’d been perfect. His huge office. This bathroom. And a formidable building that reached to the maximum height the Burbank Powers That Be allowed.

He’d loved every minute of the design and building process. And when it had come time to choose paint and tile and furniture and fixtures, he’d wallowed in that as well.

Shallow? Perhaps. But he’d worked his way up from life as a street rat to the most powerful man in Hollywood. And, dammit, he fully intended to wallow in the luxury that represented everything for which he’d worked so hard.

He drew a breath, his gaze drifting over the subtly veined Italian marble floor, sourced from the Apuan Mountains above Carrara. The etched-glass steam shower that took up an entire side of the room, its polished chrome fixtures gleaming in the early morning light now sneaking through the frosted glass window that made up an entire side of the shower.

He’d insisted on controls that allowed him to fine-tune the water temperature, the pressure, the amount of steam. He could take a quick, bracing shower if he needed it, or a longer, therapeutic steam when the day’s demands ground him down.

With a sentimental smile, he ran his finger along the marble countertop that stretched the length of the opposite wall, providing plenty of space for dual sinks and the huge mirror that almost filled the wall. Hidden cabinetry kept the area tidy, while the brushed steel fixtures contrasted the cool white and grays of the rest of the space in a way that underscored the room’s elegance.

Stunning and efficient, just as he’d wanted. Functional. Inspirational. His.

The room sat like a microcosm of his business.

A business that some unknown asshole was now fucking with.

But he was the one who did the fucking, not the other way around, and if there was a traitor at Hardline, he would make it his mission to find that person and destroy them.

He clenched his fists, then closed his eyes, letting his head drop as he counted to ten.

Over the last two decades, he’d fulfilled every dream he’d spun during those long years when he’d lived out of a backpack, forced to hustle for his supper.

He was only forty-seven years old, but it felt as if he’d lived a millennium. All those years. All that work.

Had it been worth it?

He pushed away the intrusive thought. Of course it had. He’d started with nothing. Didn’t he now have everything he’d ever wanted, with enough money tucked away to buy it all again, thirty times over?

Damn right he did. He had it all. Every tabloid rag in the city said so.

Except that was a lie.

He was close, no doubt. But the truth sneered at him. Whispering that he didn’t have forgiveness. Instead, he had regret. Even shame. And he didn’t have her, the one woman who’d been his touchstone for what felt like a lifetime. A woman he couldn’t have but would always crave.