“A glitch,” I deadpanned.
She didn’t say it, but we both knew Asher Black's reputation. Mafia ties and a less than legal history.
Her shoulders tipped up as we took seats across from each other in fucking economy class. “Black Enterprises wants this property.”
My knees bumped the seat in front of me. Fucking hell. Commercial flights weren’t made for anyone taller than a toddler or wider than a stick of gum. The C.I.A. must’ve designed this shit as a torture experiment. Cram two-hundred people into a forty-five-ton hunk of metal, force them to pay for it, and see who cracks first.
“There's no property left in Singapore like this. One-of-a-fucking-kind.” I ignored the appalled expression on the mother beside me. She covered her son’s ears and inched away from me—even as her eyes swiped up and down my body, checking me out. “It’s zoned for the highest buildings.”
Exactly why I fucking needed it.
I reclined the seat as far as it would go, pretending I didn't hear it knock against the person's knee behind me. I’d fly to Singapore, win the land auction, and find a phone charger on my way back to the airport.
Emery would understand.
She knew what Singapore meant to me.
Asher Black looked like he’d be a cocky motherfucker, and he was.
The smug son of a bitch had practically tattooed entertained across his forehead. He brought his wife Lucy to the negotiations, reaching a level of ball-less sap I was tempted to address.
“Nash Prescott in the flesh.” He leaned back in his seat and stretched, his tone flippant. “You look smaller in person.”
Lucy dug an elbow into his ribs. “Asher, stop.” She smiled at me, so opposite to her husband, I wondered why she'd chosen the dick. “You look perfectly proportionate.”
Fucking hell, she looked like she legit meant that as a compliment.
“Mr. Prescott. Mrs. Lowell.” Elliot, the auctioneer for today, glanced between us. He seemed uncomfortable around Asher, which I didn’t blame him for. “Cheng explained the mix-up. We’re so sorry. Please, allow me to extend an apology on behalf of myself and my colleagues.”
“Don't worry about it, Elliot.” Delilah perched on the seat I pulled out for her. “It's not a big deal. Truly.”
The five of us looked ridiculous in a conference room meant for thirty. Twenty-five empty chairs stretched the length of the room.
Elliot sat at the head of the table, the backdrop of Singapore visible through the glass behind him. “I’ll cut to the chase here. Mr. Black, our board has reservations about your… reputation. You’d have to make a substantially larger bid than Mr. Prescott for them to approve the sale.”
Delilah pulled out a pad of sticky notes, scribbled the damn dictionary, and slid it to me.
Good news. I expected this. I’m betting Asher did, too, which is why they had our emails hacked. If you bid in the upper threshold of your budget off the bat, we can make it clear that he'd have to pay substantially over market value to win.
Thank fuck.
Something needed to go right today.
I scrawled back:
Good.
Asher leaned forward in his seat. “If you intended on bringing me here to screw me over, you could have saved me and my wife a trip and done it over the phone.”
Elliot adjusted his collar, looking like he’d rather jump in a pool with sharks than be in a room with Asher. “I’m sorry, sir. It’s our policy not to disclose details before an auction. You request—”
“I don't care what I requested. Common courtesy…”
I tuned them out and read the note Delilah passed back.
This is perfect news. Haling Cove is nearly done anyway. With the soft launch next week, you can assure everything is on the right track for the grand opening, which gives you the opportunity to leave for Singapore the day after.
They’ll need you here for at least two months to 1) navigate your re-zoning request and 2) finalize the purchase.
What the fuck? She’d never mentioned two months in Singapore. My pen strokes left fucking indents in the pad and possibly the table.
Two months? Can’t it be done remotely?
If I’d known, I wouldn't have bothered flying here. I figured by the grand opening of the hotel, Gideon would have gotten his shit together and spilled to Emery. Maybe I could fly back and explain my part of the mess to her myself.
Even as I thought it, I knew I wouldn’t. Given the Sir Balty situation, she needed to cement her relationship with her dad. If I had a chance to talk to my dad, I’d do it. Every fucking day, not just once a week.
Asher continued to demolish Elliot, but I gave no fucks. I snatched the Post-Its from Delilah, not bothering with subtlety.
1. Walking naked in your own home.
2. Chewing gum.
3. Smoking.
4. Noise after 10 P.M.
5. Leaving the toilet un-flushed.
6. Using someone else's WiFi.
7. Hugging someone the same gender as you.
8. Singing in public.
9. Feeding pigeons.
10. Alcohol and parties between 10:30 P.M. and 7 A.M.
Lucy tilted her head from across the table, studying me. I angled my pen to block her view of the pad.
Are you on drugs or is this your pathetic bucket list?
The ledger sat in my safe. Delilah knew it existed, but she didn't know what the contents held. Really, I should have confessed to Emery by now. It possessed enough evidence to free Gideon of all accusations.
No more hiding out in Blithe for him. He’d be able to visit his daughter without fear of a mob. She could drop the Rhodes last name and become a Winthrop again.
But—fucking but—it meant a possible jail sentence for me. I wanted one damn month of me and Emery on some stranded island, talking, laughing, fucking on every inch of the beach before I spent twenty years in jail.
(I Google’d it. That was the maximum sentence for insider trading, not to mention the whole burning evidence thing.)
Delilah slid the pad to me.
No, just listing illegal things to do in Singapore. Now, imagine the strict property laws. But go ahead. Try closing remotely and fuck up this deal WE’ve been working on for years. (And by we, I mean ME, while you obsessed on the sidelines.)
She had a point.
I obsessed over this project.
Sitting on the roof of the building next door, I’d never felt closer to Dad. The skyscraper boasted nearly eighty floors. I bribed so many politicians in the past several years, just to rezone mine for one-hundred-and-thirty floors.
Higher than the fucking Empire State, the Shanghai Tower, and the Makkah Clock Tower.
Dad.
Emery.
Having to make this choice should have compared to voluntarily sticking my neck under a tractor. It didn’t.
The consequences hurt, yes, but choosing Emery came easy.
“Eat a Snickers, Asher. You’re too you when you’re hungry.” I tossed Delilah’s pad in the trash and stood. “Prescott Hotels formally withdraws from this auction.”
Everyone in this room—aside from Lucy, and seriously what the fuck—shared dumbstruck expressions.
Delilah recovered first. “Excuse me while I confer with my client.” In the hallway, she paced twice and rounded on me. “What the hell, Nash?!”
“Careful, D.” I made a show of studying her forehead. “Those wrinkles are showing. I count one, two—”
“This is not funny.” Delilah Jr., that vein on her temple, looked ten seconds from bursting. “Do you know how long I've worked to make this happen for you?”
“I've compensated you for your time.” I swallowed and turned away.
Even with the burn of her disappointment, the decision felt easy. I picked Emery. Simple as that.
“It's not the money or the time. It's the fact that I worked my ass off, knowing how much this project meant to you… And now you’re pulling out? Why?”
> I didn’t answer.
Her head whipped back. She rocked on her heel and gave me a shit-eating grin. “It's Emery, isn't it?”
I said nothing, waiting this out.
She continued, still with that fucking smile. “I always knew you were capable of falling in love.” With that, she turned and walked to the room.
“Delilah?”
She paused, fingers on the door handle. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Her brows shot up, like she couldn’t believe I’d uttered a thank you. You'd think I was a fucking monster or something.
“Let’s get you your girl.”
I spent the flight back to the U.S. lamenting the fact that I had to choose between buying a new charger and taking the first flight out of Singapore.
With only one seat available, Delilah stayed behind. I tried to feel bad about it, but A—I wanted to return home to Emery and B—Delilah seemed excited to maul the Singaporean street food. So, really, she should thank me.
Free trip to Singapore on the company.
By the time I landed, I had zero patience for customs. I cut past people when they stopped paying attention—and did it again even when they did pay attention.
At the kiosk, I handed the customs officer my passport, ignoring the irritated whispers of the people I’d skipped over.
The officer swiped the passport and tilted his head at the screen. He swiped it again.
“Is there a problem?” I glanced at my watch.
It had taken nineteen hours to fly from D.C. to Singapore, then twenty-five hours to fly from Singapore to North Carolina with a quick layover that required me to sprint from one end of the airport to the other like I was Eric fucking Liddell.
With the meeting, all in, Emery hadn’t heard from me in over two days.
I blinked away the jet lag, in time to catch the officer waving a coworker over. “If this is about cutting in line, can we hold off the time-out until tomorrow? Fuck.”
“Sir, come with me.” Officer Two snagged my passport from Officer One and led me to a back room, while I wondered what the hell was going on.
A metal bench pushed against the wall in the corner. The rectangular table filled the space, two chairs on each side. It looked like the mall cop version of an interrogation room.
I arched a brow and turned to the officer. “Do I need to call my attorney?”
Goddamnit, Delilah.
She was probably scarfing down bah kut teh on an overcrowded street this very second. Also, even if I had a call to use, my phone had powered down, and I hadn’t memorized any numbers.
“Sir, I need you to lower your voice and calm down.”
“I am fucking calm.”
“A law enforcement agency has placed a flag on your passport.” The officer gestured to a seat. “Please, wait here while we alert the appropriate authorities.”
Appropriate authorities.
“Goddamn rent-a-cops.” I made a show of yawning and laying on the table instead of sitting on a chair.
The first hour pissed me off.
The second hour made me stir crazy.
And on the third hour, the puzzle pieces fell into place. The door swung open, and the ‘appropriate authority’ walked in.
Brandon Vu.
Since I didn’t get a note this morning, or yesterday morning, or the morning before that, or the morning before that… I’ve decided to be proactive and leave you one.
Before you ask, no, I will not come back to you.
Emery
P.S. You’re a bad stitch job that can’t be undone. No matter how hard I try to untangle us, we become messier than when we began.
Bile chased my breath.
I chugged half a bottle of water, hoping it'd make me less queasy.
Nope.
Still a quarter second from spewing my empty stomach all over the floor.
I’d felt this way since realizing Nash had kept a ledger that could exonerate my Dad for almost eight years. I’d gone through every scenario, trying to justify it, but Ceiling always cut through the bullshit.
I tried again.
“Maybe he thought Dad participated in the scandal?”
Ceiling: You are worse than a broken record. At least record players can be turned off. Let me say it slower this time—he took you to see your Dad. Repeatedly. Why would he do that if he thought your dad was guilty?
“Maybe he lost the ledger since then?”
Ceiling: Really? This again? Hun, people lose things like their virginity or their car keys. People don't lose evidence in famous fraud cases unless it’s on purpose. Because you’re particularly dimwitted, let me spell that out for you—I’m talking about destroying evidence.
“Maybe he’s keeping it to ask me what to do with it?”
Ceiling: And in the almost eight years since he had it, has he ever once asked you what you want to do about it? On second thought, don’t answer that. You have conversations with inanimate objects. I wouldn’t put it past you to hallucinate conversations with Nash, too.
“If he's innocent, I shouldn’t have left that letter on his door. He didn't show up to our date, so I couldn't even confront him about the ledger like I'd planned. Then, he sent me straight to voicemail the fifty billion times I called him. And he hasn't brought me my lunch or notes in days.”
My emotions exceeded a single word, so I hadn’t bothered printing a new t-shirt since he left. I wore a plain t-shirt, feeling so unlike myself, it was almost embarrassing.
Office gossip placed Nash with Delilah in Singapore for a meeting.
I’d believed it… until I spotted Delilah yesterday, walking down the hallway, coffee cup in hand. When I asked her about Nash, she seemed surprised I hadn’t seen him, mentioning he’d flown in before her and she hadn't seen him since either.
I checked the flight logs for all the local airports, then all the ones in the state. Every direct and connecting flight from Singapore in the past five days had arrived.
Ceiling: Obviously, he's avoiding you. He deserved that note.
My feet dragged across the carpet with each step. I had carpet burns on them from pacing. Still, I sprinted to the door at the knock and swung it open.
Nash.
Relief swept through me like a current. The violent kind that pummeled your body, pulled you under, and dragged you places you didn’t want to go.
He waved a sheet of paper, looking more exhausted than I’d ever seen him. Frankly, a little smelly, too. His eyes dipped to my shirt, noticed nothing on it, and returned to my face.
A frown turned his lips down. “Before you speak, I wrote you a letter. This was before I got your letter, by the way, but I still mean every word of mine. I want to see your face when you read it.”
I traced him with my eyes, cataloging the wrinkled button-down, abandoned suit jacket, and slacks that had lost their pleating.
My lower lip folded into my mouth. Even disheveled, I wanted him.
Sighing, I yanked the letter from his fingers and scanned the first line.
You are flawed.
A hate letter?
I jerked my gaze up. “Are you serious?”
“Did you want me to send it to an editor first?” He seemed a little unhinged, the whites of his eyes peppered with red from lack of sleep. “Come on, just read it.” His hand raked through his hair. Once. “Please.”
It was his hands through his hair that undid me, but the please cemented it. I dropped my gaze back down to the letter and read.
You are flawed.
You talk to yourself.
You talk to the sky.
You know words that mean nothing to most people.
You don’t care about words that matter to everyone else.
You are harder on yourself than others.
You love the dark more than you love the light.
Your heart is too big, so you do stupid shit like give up food and shelter for a complete stranger to get a college degree.
&n
bsp; You love small moments more than big ones.
You believe in magical words, yet you don’t believe in fate.
You are so fixated on the stars—whether or not they’re there—but to be fucking honest, the sky could be full of them or completely empty, and I’d still be looking at you.
You are flawed, but you're also perfect. (Of course, you don’t believe in the word perfect either.)
And if I could give you anything, I wouldn’t save you (from yourself or me). You’re more than capable of doing all the saving.
I’d give you the ability to look at yourself through my eyes. You’d see that you are not the storm. You are lightning in the storm. You are what pierces through the clouds and shines brightest.
You'd see exactly why I love you.
“Nash,” I started, unsure what to say.
I struggled to find words, swallowing each emotion as they took turns throttling me. His fingers reached for the letter when all I wanted to do was grab it, frame it, and make it mine.
I released it, because the idea of it ripping in my hands devastated me.
My eyes refused to leave him. He looked like a favorite memory, one you replayed until everything reminded you of it and became déjà vu.
Nash broke the silence with an infuriating, self-satisfied smile. “Yep.”
Devious Lies: A Cruel Crown Novel Page 45
