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Don’t. Bloody. React.

“I couldn’t comment on his motives,” I say.

“No?” Bill’s eyes sharpen. “I rather hoped you could.”

“I don’t know him that well.” Another bluster.

A pause.

Too long.

“Earlier you said you knew him well enough.”

Damn it.

My throat tightens. I should be better than this. I negotiate high end valuations under pressure. I sit opposite hardcore businessmen with predator smiles and don’t even sweat. I’ve talked men through multimillion-pound risks without so much as a tremor in my voice. Yet here I am, being undone over Jack Jackass fucking Reid and Alice’s wonderful paintings.

“I meant socially,” I say. “I know him socially. Not professionally.”

Bill studies me.

I’m thirteen years old again, standing in the Parker hallway with mud on my shoes and guilt on my face because Alice and I smashed apples through the greenhouse windows. Only this time Joe the gardener isn’t the one at risk of losing his job.

I am.

“I don’t like surprises,” Bill says.

“No. I know that.”

“And Jack Reid was a surprise.”

“I didn’t know he would go all in for Alice’s paintings, honestly.”

“That much I believe.”

His words may be gentle, but they sting.

Bill turns away and moves behind his desk. He finally sits down and leans back in his chair. I should feel better now we’re both seated, but I don’t. Somehow he looks even more powerful there, framed by the skyline of Canary Wharf, his empire humming around him as the workday comes to life.

“Alice was delighted,” he says.

“Absolutely. And so she should be. Her work deserves recognition.”

I mean it too fiercely.

Bill notices.

Of course he does.

“Yes,” he says slowly. “It does. Within reason.”

Something cold slices through me that sends a tremor up my spine. I know him too well by now not to sense it.

“Within reason? What does that mean?”

He opens a drawer, removes a slim folder, and places it on the desk. Not business documents. I can tell from the way he handles it. Personal. Planned.

“Alice has had her freedom,” he says.