Total pages in book: 29
Estimated words: 26605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 26605 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 133(@200wpm)___ 106(@250wpm)___ 89(@300wpm)
“What? I am not,” I say with mock indignation.
“Girl, you are. And while I can understand the appeal to him, try working with him, then you’ll see things differently.” She goes about pouring herself a glass of champagne, then nods at me to ask if I want one. My response is obvious, and she proceeds to top the others off while she’s at it.
“Well, I can’t say that I agree. After all, I got the man I get to call mine,” Seraphina chimes in. Her eyes are locked on Rafe’s and his are much the same. When I look back at Dom Mercer while taking a sip of the delicious bubbly, the intensity in his eyes magnifies with a raw edge around him. He doesn’t smile, but the deliberate way he’s tracking each and every movement with a different kind of interest has my thighs clenching and my core aching.
“Come on, let’s go dance before Rafe hauls Seraphina over his shoulder and takes off with her.” Jett guzzles her champagne, tossing it back like it’s a shot of vodka. That girl is going to feel it come tomorrow morning. I take a few sips of my own before I stand up, smoothing down the skirt of my dress, and as soon as Alex loops her arm through mine, we’re heading out to the VIP dance area, all while I can feel a certain billionaire’s gaze searing my back.
CHAPTER ONE
dom
Present Day
“Run that back again,” Vik says with amusement written on his face, shit-eating grin and all. It’s well after office hours. Each guy has a drink of their choice—Vik his preferred Vodka, Rafe opts for a beer over his usual whisky and probably won’t stay here much longer since Seraphina left the building hours ago. Dante is the Tequila drinker of the group. And me, I’m not particular. Tonight, I’m going for rum. I lean back in my custom leather chair and look at the time on my brushed steel casing of my Patek Phillipe watch, a masterpiece of engineering serving as a daily reminder of exactly why the board at Sterling Capital looks at me like I’m a virus in their perfectly curated faulty system.
I’m the wild card. The black sheep. The guy who prefers the sun-drenched coast of whatever island I can get away to, to a windowless boardroom. I spend my hard-earned money on custom-tailored suits, high-end watches, and a garage with three cars that costs more than I care to admit. For some godawful reason, they think a venture capitalist should be miserable, gray, stressed, and have a paunched stomach, and even more than that, they hate my bloodline tied to me. Before I finished college, dear old Dad made a string of terrible, reckless investments that nearly tanked our family name into absolute oblivion. I did what Dad couldn’t, took what we had left, gambled on a few high-risk options, and won. What I didn’t do was continue gambling. I took my winnings, left the table, channeled the funds into smarter, airtight investments, tripled our money, and kept the board members off our backs. I rebuilt an empire from the ashes of the fire my father lit with kerosine and a match before he walked away, watching it burn to the ground. Needless to say, our relationship is still rocky at best, and the old stuffy bastards that have sat on the board all this time still think of me as a reckless gambler’s son.
“This guy called me while he was in a coat closet, hiding from the board members. Told him I’d give him the money.” Rafe gives out a short, sharp laugh.
“It was the closet or contemplating life with some kind of monitoring device on my ankle, permanent bracelets, or wearing orange for the rest of eternity. What it’s not about is the money, I have that. It’s about the goddamn principal. It’s been years since everything went down and still, they won’t back me. Fuckers.” I tighten my jaw, unable to see the humor in the situation.
“That leaves two options: pony up the money yourself, which you’ve expressed isn’t happening, or take a corporate loan. It’s either that or finally get serious about playing for keeps. It’s an optics game, Dom, and you’re nigh on losing,” Dante states, ever the realist. He adjusts the cuffs of his shirt, his expression cool and calculating as he looks across the desk at me.
“Yeah, like marrying someone. Nothing says I’m a stable, boring, dependable billionaire business man like a diamond ring and a marriage license,” Rafe says with a smirk. The words marrying, marriage, and marry hang in the air like a lead weight, dropping heavily to the pit of my stomach. The guys staying quiet doesn’t help matters, either. They’re studying me, gauging if I’d laugh it off or throw my glass at the wall.