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“Their asset valuations,” I clarify. “Not with whether they have the rights to the tech. Dammit, Tris. If I lose this deal—” which almost certainly would mean losing the award, “—it’ll be because of my ownbrother.”
I head out and he follows me. I mentally run through the things I should’ve done or could’ve done to prevent this. The paperwork my associates did on the frontend.
Despite what I said, it’s not Tris’s fault. At the end of the day, the responsibility ismine.
"Where are you going?” He follows me into the stairwell, calling afterme.
“Out.”
I take the stairs down, stalking out to the street, unsure of where I’mgoing.
I call the founder of my potential investment directly and demand anexplanation.
“It’s baseless,” he assures me. “I wrote the code after Ileft.”
“There’s nothing you took from a server when you left. A database.Anything.”
He hesitates, and that beat of silence has my guttwisting.
“Of course not. But you know it’s hard to completely distinguish the ideas I had independently from projects I was working on at thetime.”
His words don’t reassureme.
“I get that. But if there’s even a hint of an issue—if one of those companies files and you can’t get a judge to throw it out on day one—you can’t afford to pay the legal fees for a multi-year courtbattle.”
I hang up, realizing I’m halfway to Daisy’soffice.
On impulse, I hail a cab to take me the rest of theway.
I need to see her, if only for five minutes. She’ll listen, and calm medown.
I used to get through work problems on my own, but this time is different. With Xavier getting ready to announce his successor and the awards gala next week, the stakes arehigher.
When I get to Daisy’s office and head up to the second floor, I catch sight of something through the windowed panel that makes the floor under meshift.
She’s standing in the foyer, looking gorgeous and talking to anotherguy.
He doesn’t look like a client. He’s flirting with her. And she’s smiling athim.
I force myself to open the door, and her gaze shifts to find me. The man turns to follow her attention. He’s tall, dressed in an expensively cutsuit.
I head straight forthem.
“Marc,” she says, and time slowsdown.
Marc.
“This is Ben,” she goes on, hesitating. “Afriend.”
A sickening thought occurs to me.Is she thinking of going back to Wall Street once we’ve ended ourarrangement?
Her phone rings and she glances down with a smile of apology. “Excuse me,” she says to one or both of us, “I have to grabthis.”
She turns for her office, shooting me a wary “behave”look.
“Ben of the flowers,” Marc says once she’s gone, nodding toward the card in the huge arrangement engulfing thetable.
He might be a prick, but he’s observant. Point,Marc.
