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“He’s a good man, Clement,” I reply. “He’s helped me out a million times. Steven has never let me down. I wouldn’t be here, working for you and coming up with this pitch, if it weren’t for him.”

“You trust his word?” Clement asks, deadly serious.

“Yes, I do. Clement, he said it was good.”

“Well, I might not like him,” Clement says, “but the man has experience. And you vouch for him.”

“So, we’re going ahead with it tomorrow? We’re pressing the button?”

Clement nods.

He gets up from his chair, and so do I. We both head to the door, my brother opening it to let me out first. But I can sense he has something else to tell me, so I pause.

“I’m putting so much of my own capital on the line,” he says, still holding the door open.

“I know.”

“That’s because I trust you completely, and I sure as hell don’t trust many people.”

“This will work,” I whisper. “It has to work.”

“You know,” Clement says, “most businesses would have an army of lawyers and consultants and accountants draw up a proposal like this. But all I need is you. My sister’s mind is better than most of Wall Street.”

“We’re a good team.”

“Look, you’re not going to hear this much from me,” Clement continues, “but... I fucking love you, Jolie. I’m proud of you. I see how you work, and you impress me every fucking day. You’re going to ace this tomorrow.”

I wrap my arms around my brother and hug him tight.

And he, miraculously, hugs me back.

It’s an unusual show of affection between the two of us, but I welcome it deep in my soul.

We’ve been through a lot together, Clement and me. We’ve had to rely on each other with an unsympathetic, ambitious father whose focus was always on the Castaways and never on us. We’ve worked together. We’ve built Auclair Capital together. I would do anything for Clement, and I know he would do anything for me.

He trusts me. And I am lying to him about his best friend.

He should never, ever find out about Fabien and me, and especially not this week. Because I know if he ever did, there would be blood.

16

JOLIE

I step into the penthouse and blow a raspberry. I’ve come back from work, from all the chaos and uncertainty and stress building around tomorrow’s presentation, to this? To a secret society’s penthouse that I’m forced to share with a man who hates me?

It’s like stepping out of the frying pan and into the fire.

And by God, I know I’m gonna get burned.

I place my presentation folder neatly on the kitchen counter, ready for me to pick it up in the morning, and I glance around the place. The penthouse greets me with an eerie silence. There’s no sign of Fabien. He’s not back yet.

I don’t know what to do with myself for the evening other than brace myself for what is to come. This is the worst bit before anything like the pitch tomorrow. The terrifying waiting.

And somehow, I’ve also got to survive the night with him.

I take a stroll through the penthouse, relieved I can now look around without Fabien brooding over my shoulder. He left the place a mess this morning. His bag is open on the floor as if a bomb exploded in the middle of it. His laptop is half-open on the table, screen off. A pair of shoes lies far apart across the room. A shirt lies crumpled on the floor by the bedroom. The mess is surprising because he’s always been such a disciplined person. I guess the events of the last day have screwed with his head.

Yeah, how on earth am I gonna make it through this week?