Chapter 145
Chapter 145:
Jocelyn looked up, her eyes narrowing. “Tell him to email his concerns p>
“I did. He says he has questions about the supply chain for the toiletries. He’s threatening to pull the account p>
Jocelyn cursed under her breath. The Douglas corporate account represented fifteen percent of their annual revenue. Losing it now, immediately after the renovation costs, would be a serious blow.
“Fine,” she said. “Where p>
𝗧𝗵e 𝖻𝗲𝘀𝘁 𝘳𝗲𝘃𝗂𝗲w𝘴 𝗈𝗻
“Dinner. The Grill. Eight o’clock.” Liam checked his phone.
“I’ll handle him p>
She watched him leave, her stomach tightening. The thought of telling Gaston about a dinner with Kieran made her hesitate. He would insist on coming, on turning a straightforward business meeting into another confrontation. After the cold silence that had settled between them since the yacht, she couldn’t face it. More than that, something stubborn in her needed to prove she could manage her own monsters. This was her past. Her mess to clean up.
She picked up her phone and typed: Business dinner tonight. Client meeting. Don’t wait up.
Gaston replied immediately: Where?
She typed back: Just a client at The Plaza.
She set the phone face-down and opened her desk drawer. She checked her purse. Pepper spray. Check.
The Grill was a midtown institution — dimly lit, smelling of expensive steak, aged scotch, and old money. The walls were mahogany. The banquettes were dark leather.
Kieran was already waiting in a semi-private booth toward the back.
Jocelyn walked in wearing a high-necked black suit. Armor.
“Jocelyn,” Kieran said, not standing. His eyes traveled over her slowly. “You look tired p>
“Let’s talk numbers,” she said, sitting down across from him and placing the contract folder on the table between them.
Kieran ignored it. He raised a hand toward the waiter. “A bottle of the ’98 Cabernet. Two glasses p>
“I’m not drinking,” Jocelyn said, covering her glass with her palm.
“It’s rude to refuse a toast to our history,” Kieran said, smirking. “Besides, you need to relax. That fake marriage must be exhausting p>
“Sign the contract, Kieran p>
He gestured to the waiter anyway. The dark red wine filled the crystal glass.
In the Collins penthouse, Gaston sat at his desk with his tablet open.
A red dot pulsed on the map.
The Grill.
Not The Plaza.
He stared at it. Why would she lie?
He wasn’t spying — he was monitoring her safety. A necessary precaution after the incident at the mall, a feature she had reluctantly agreed to for emergencies. But the lie stung in a way he hadn’t expected. He opened the reservation access Vance had rigged through a backdoor into the city’s dining network and searched the table number.
Reservation: Kieran Douglas.
The room temperature seemed to drop.
“He’s dead,” Gaston said quietly.
He stood, knocking his chair over, and grabbed his coat.
“Vance!” he called. “Get the car. Now p>
Back at The Grill, Kieran was on his third glass of wine and growing aggressive.
“Admit it,” he said, leaning across the table. His breath carried the sweetness of alcohol. “That photo was staged. You looked stiff. You’re miserable with him p>