Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126818 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 634(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 423(@300wpm)
“How worried am I?” I grabbed my laptop, getting ready to go down to the fourth floor and rip my legal team a new one for not smelling this from a hundred-mile radius.
“Considerably. You own the land, but Andrew is suggesting some amendments to international laws,” Devon admitted. “What’s your game plan?”
“Make him lose his pants by prolonging the trial until Green Living won’t be able to afford a package of lettuce,” I said right off the bat.
“That’d stall him, not stop him.” Devon sounded thoughtful. “I’m on my way. Meet me on the fourth floor.”
I stormed out of my office, passing a desperate Casey, who flailed on her heels, trying to chase me down to figure out what I wanted for lunch.
Andrew’s head on a platter.
“Kill?” Devon asked on the other line as I punched the elevator. “Arrowsmith made a bloody good move. We might need to negotiate.”
“I don’t negotiate with terrorists.”
Besides, I knew Andrew didn’t give two damns about the polar bears or fluffy snow foxes. If anything, he must’ve known drilling the Arctic wasn’t half as dirty and controversial as hydraulic fracking, also known as Royal Pipelines’ method of choice until I came into the picture.
He was after the Fitzpatricks.
Me, specifically.
Unfortunately for him, I had two rules:
I never shied away from a good, gory war.
I always won.
After an urgent meeting that bled into late afternoon, I took the elevator back to the management floor.
Devon and my entire legal team had advised me to bide my time, stay silent, then release a public statement in a few weeks’ time, indicating Royal Pipelines would cease its exploration in Arctic water due to insufficient quantities of petroleum.
In other words, I was asked to retreat and wave the white flag on the grounds that going to war made my knees look bloated as opposed to because I was afraid of losing to Andrew Arrowsmith.
Little did they know, I never lost.
I wasn’t angry or unruffled, but I definitely wasn’t in a giving mood. Just because I didn’t feel didn’t mean I was immune to a bad temper. Andrew was trying to screw me over, and I did not appreciate the way he went about it.
I sauntered past Hunter’s glass office, pausing when I realized he had company.
Sailor sat on his desk, throwing her head back and laughing. Emmabelle was there, too, in heels more fitted for a drag show and a red leather skirt. She probably frequented the same shops as Ms. Brandt.
Then there was my wife.
Persephone wore a designer black chiffon dress with silver stars, swinging a new pair of Gucci boots as she sat on the edge of Hunter’s desk, sucking on a lollipop.
She moved like a siren gliding out of the water. Healthy, radiating, and happy. At least a few pounds heavier than she was at our wedding. The extra weight gave her curves and arches that would make the Pope’s mouth water.
My wife was glowing, content, and gorgeous.
And it made me want to strangle her.
She was living the life while I picked up the tab. New apartment, new wardrobe, cleaners, and meal kit services, plus a full staff waiting for her to snap her fingers and tell them what to do. She still hadn’t fulfilled her part of our bargain.
I got a raw deal, and if there was one thing I wasn’t—it was a bad businessman.
Smoothing a hand over my waistcoat, I walked over to Hunter’s office and opened the door without knocking.
“Hey, bro.” Hunter looked up from something he showed the women on his phone, still smiling. “’Sup? You look like someone pissed in your soup.”
Ignoring him, I moved toward Persephone, who stiffened the minute I entered the room. I leaned down and kissed her cheek, watching the color rising on her porcelain-grained complexion.
“Kill,” she said, bizarrely surprised by bumping into me in my own office building. Was she expecting me to run my meetings at the local Chuck E. Cheese?
“How have you been?” I asked coolly.
“Great.”
I bet, sweetheart.
“May I have a word?”
She looked around us, hesitating as though I’d pounce on her. We both knew we had the opposite problem.
“Is the honeymoon phase over?” Sailor raised a ginger eyebrow. “Oh, that’s right. Kill didn’t take Persy on a honeymoon.”
“Don’t make me take off my earrings.” Belle stepped toward me, folding her arms. “Kill will get killed if he messes with my baby sister. I’ve already told him that.”
That’s right. Emmabelle paid me a visit shortly after news of my engagement to her sister broke. I still mourned the ten minutes I had to listen to her rambling.
First, she’d offered herself as a bride if I’d let her sister go. It had obviously been a test, meant to see if I’d wanted Persephone specifically, or any woman with a uterus and of good health. When I’d told Emmabelle my interest in touching her rivaled my desire to step on every piece of Lego in North America barefoot, she’d proceeded to make idle threats and flex her nonexistent biceps, bullying me with bodily harm.