Trillion(15)

I shake my head. “Heading home.”

He frowns. “Big plans?”

“Yes, actually,” I say. I could tell him I’ve got plans, that I’m meeting my girlfriends for drinks or something that makes me sound averagely interesting. Or I could tell him the truth. I opt for the latter, seeing how I’ve no need to impress this man. “Going to binge-watch Outlander and polish off a bottle of dessert wine.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t laugh. Doesn’t give a damn.

“I have reservations at The Black Lotus for seven tonight, but your plans sound better.”

I can’t help but laugh. “You’re a terrible liar.”

Are we flirting? If we are, it’s accidental.

“Am I?” I think he’s teasing.

I nod. “The worst.”

I imagine people tell him what he wants to hear all the time. Maybe it wouldn’t kill him to hear the truth once in a while.

“Why don’t you join me for dinner? This place has got a years’ long wait list,” he adds, as if that might sway me. “I typically prefer to dine alone, but I’d love your company. Besides, I’m sure the wine and Outlander will be waiting for you when you get home.”

“Tempting,” I say.

I’ve heard of The Black Lotus. The place is reserved for the wealthiest of the wealthy. Ultra-exclusive. Diamond-encrusted silverware. Antique crystal plates. Michelin-starred. Thousands of dollars a plate. “I’m going to pass. Enjoy your dinner, Mr. Westcott.”

I try to get around him, but something about the way he looks at me anchors me, keeps me from leaving.

“Please, call me Trey,” he says.

I turn to face him.

His shoulders strain against his navy suit coat, causing me to unintentionally wonder what he looks like beneath his expensive fa?ade. If his chest is smooth or brushed with a masculine spray of hair. If the veins pop from his forearms when he fucks. How the curve of his biceps would feel beneath my palms.

I push the intrusive thoughts from my head and offer a gracious smile. “Enjoy your dinner, Trey.”

He’s trying to woo me.

I’m not an idiot.

I’ve been pursued before. It’s all smoke and mirrors. A man impresses a girl, makes her feel like it’s a privilege just to be on his arm, and in the end, he takes what he wants and discards the rest. Like a lion devouring a gazelle and leaving nothing but bones before moving onto the next meal.

“I don’t beg,” Trey says. “Ever—”

I stop him there. “—don’t go breaking your rules just for me.”

“One dinner.” He steps closer, a faint hint of his woodsy cologne permeating the air we share.

“Why?”

He chuffs, as if my question is preposterous. “Why not?”

“I’ve already made my decision. It’s not going to change anything because you take me out to dinner.” I tilt my head, steadying my gaze across the room at him, and I try not to be distracted by his dashing, timeless good looks. The way the brill cream in his side-parted hair makes it seem almost shower-wet. The chiseled jaw line with the flash of dimples when he speaks. The stare that cuts through me and simultaneously anchors me in place. “You’re an incredible businessman, Trey. I’m sure there are a lot of women out there who would sell their souls for a lifetime with you. I’m sorry, but I’m not one of them.”

I leave before he can protest.

It’s tempting, I’ll admit. I’m only human. And I can only imagine how thirty-four million dollars would change my life—my mother’s and sister’s lives too. All of our futures.

But I’m not arm candy. I’m not a commodity or a business acquisition.

I have my reasons.

And they number in the trillions.





Nine





Trey



Present



I dine alone at The Black Lotus Friday night, staring at the empty chair where Sophie should be sitting. The woman is proving to be more formidable than I expected, and when it’s all said and done, this deal will go down in the history books as one of the toughest—right alongside Ames Oil and Steel.

I slice into my filet mignon as the server deposits a fresh Scotch in a glass adorned with a one-carat canary yellow diamond encircled by their logo, and I feast my attention on the sparkling city view.

Everyone should have a chance to see the world from the hundredth story of a century-old building at least once in their life.

Unfortunately not everyone will.

The man and woman at the next table over hold hands, a tall candle flickering between them, throwing reflections in their starry gazes.

I imagine that’s what love is like—blinded by the warm glow of something both dangerous and beautiful.

Not that I’d know.

My parents had that. At least from what I remember and what I’ve read in the dozens of biographies written about them since their passing two decades ago. Edie and Pierce Westcott II were iconic. American as apple pie. Timeless as Chanel. Fascinating as Princess Diana.

They’d spent most of their lives polishing the Westcott name, building charities, foundations, and futuristic business endeavors for the greater good of humanity—only to have it all cut short when a faulty wire in the engine of their personal jet took them down in fiery flames extinguished by the frigid Atlantic ocean.