Twisted (Never After #4)(14)

“I’ve got a few personal family things I need to take care of,” Tinashe starts, his voice strong over the speaker phone. “I’d like to go deal with them in person, but we’ve also been running into problems with Da— ”

“None of this shit matters,” Ian bursts out from on the other side of my desk. The nostrils on his wide nose flare as he taps his foot against the wooden leg of his chair, his dirty-blond hair mussed from where he’s run his fingers through it. His rough voice stops Tinashe from speaking, and I grit my teeth to keep from lashing out.

Ever since I’ve clued Ian in on the fact that Ali is one foot in the grave and I’m nowhere in the will, he’s been…tense.

I squint my eyes, running my hand over my jaw.

“Apologies for the interruption, Tinashe,” I finally say, my eyes never leaving my petulant assistant’s. “Take the time with your family. I’ll send someone over to take your place.”

Ian swallows harshly, his Adam’s apple bobbing as I press the button to end the call. I lean back in my chair, steepling my fingers in front of my mouth, hoping my displeasure is coating the air and strangling him. He knows better than to speak out of turn with important people. He’s supposed to be seen, not heard.

“Remind me again,” I start, pressing my hands down into the arms of the chair and pushing myself to a stand, “when I gave you the idea that you were allowed to have a voice?”

Slowly, I roll up the black sleeves on my button-down shirt until they’re above my elbows, showcasing the tattoos I’ve accumulated over the years. Ian is the only person in the world who knows what they stand for, and right now, I use them as an intimidation tactic. He’s never above being another trophy on my skin.

Reaching into my pocket, I remove my compact staff, twirling it around in my hand as I make my way toward him. A strand of my hair falls from its place, tickling my flesh as it sweeps across my forehead when I look down at my favorite weapon.

“Boss, I didn’t mean— ”

“Shh.” I stop in front of him, resting the top of the metal stick over his thin, pasty lips. “You need to trust me.”

He swallows thickly. “I am. I do. I just hate to see you work so hard for that chump, Ali. And now we’re supposed to woo his daughter?” He shakes his head. “You’re better than that. Better than them.”

“I agree.” I smile, straightening up and slipping the staff back in my pocket, deciding he’s groveling enough to not need a lesson. “Soon, this will all be ours and no one will stand in our way. But we have to play the game in order to get the spoils. My instinct has never steered me wrong. This is our in.”

Ian nods. “Marry the Sultans princess, so we get the Sultans legacy.”

I open my mouth to reply, but voices suddenly filter through from the front room to my office. My eyes flick from Ian’s face to the door, and I try to make out the blurry figures through the frosted glass.

Nobody is set to see me in person today, and even though my receptionist, Ciara, is new, just recently hired on by Ian, she knows better than to let random people in. “Precisely.”

“And after?”

Smirking, I press a hand against my chest. “I’m sure she’ll be devastated after the old man dies, longing to see her father again. What kind of a husband would I be if I didn’t take care of her every wish?”

Ian’s smile grows, his chipped front tooth gleaming with his slimy grin. “A family reunion.”

I laugh. “You’ve got a foul mind, Ian. But you’re not wrong.”

If she annoys me in the meantime, I’ll just shove her in the farthest wing of my house and maybe let the boy come around. Keep her satisfied enough so she doesn’t bother me. It won’t do me any favors to have her miserable, even though the idea sends a personal thrill through me at the thought. Instead, I’ll keep her agreeable, convince the world we’re desperately in love, and then play the part of the grieving widower.

Of course, after the way I’d left her the other night, I assumed she would have come running by now with her tail tucked between her legs, begging for my help, and since she hasn’t, I may have to reassess how things are handled.

The noise from the reception area becomes louder, and irritation winds its way down my spine that Ciara still hasn’t handled it. I walk closer to the door, pressing my ear against the wood so I can listen to the conversation.

“Miss, there’s nothing else I can do,” Ciara says.

“What’s your name?” the other person responds.

My brows shoot up at the voice. Yasmin.

Delight swims through my veins and I spin around, unable to keep the smile from spreading across my face at the coincidence. “Luck is on our side, Ian.”

I move to the door and open it, expecting the two women to turn toward me when I do, but they’re locked on to each other as though they didn’t hear me at all.

Ian steps up behind me, his face hovering above my shoulder as he peers at the scene. I can feel his presence and see him in my peripheral vision, but I ignore him, moving slightly away and leaning against the doorframe, uncomfortable with how close he was standing.

I slip my hands in my pockets, my fingers running along the length of the metal staff.

Ciara and Yasmin stand on either side of the small white desk that’s against the left-hand wall of the reception area. Ciara’s dull brown hair is pulled back in a sleek bun, her eyes sparking with annoyance, her small wiry frame tense.