Ms. Monroe,
* * *
Thank you for thinking of me for the opportunity with Marchand & Co. I’m flattered by the consideration.
I’m happy to talk about setting up a date and time to talk.
* * *
Warmly,
Seraphina Hollis
I wad the papers into a ball and hurl them at the wall.
Frowning, she hurries to retrieve them and open them. I’m not watching her reaction, though. I’m focused on the next fucking damning item.
More emails. From her work address this time, to goddamn Lane Marchand.
Subject: Follow-up
* * *
Lane,
* * *
Thanks for the coffee yesterday. I’m interested in pursuing conversations.
Vision red, I flip to the next page. Another email.
Subject: Board Meeting
* * *
Hi, Lane,
* * *
Per our conversation, I advised Blackwell against the merger. As per your suggestion, double-counted income raised red flags.
* * *
Sincerely, S
I look over at her. Her body is trembling, and her face is white. “No,” she whispers. “No.”
I stare at the pages.
Each word is a blade, carving through memories—her laughter in my penthouse, her body warm against mine, her voice swearing she’s mine.
The report she sent Walt and Reynolds, now staring back at me, claims Lockhart’s golden, while hers to me says it’s poison. Lies?
I ball my hand into a fist.
“Xavier… Please… You have to listen to me.”
“He’s listened to you more than he should.” Walt shoots her a cold glare.