“Take your proposition, and go fuck yourself with it.”
Bentley blinked. My words registered, and his smile disappeared beneath a mottle of red. “You—”
“Let me make a few things clear.” I spoke over him. “One, I would rather sleep with a leprosy-infected ogre before I ever let you touch me again. You are a disgusting, misogynist pig whose brain is inversely proportionate to the size of your giant ego, and you’re lucky I was too young when we met to know otherwise. Two, Georgia has many faults, but she and every other woman who’s unlucky enough to cross your path deserves better than you. I hope the next time she throws a vase at you, she doesn’t miss. Three, Xavier is ten times the man you could ever hope to be. He’s smarter, kinder, and better in bed.” I cocked my head. “News flash, Bentley, you’re not the sex god you think you are. Your technique is shit, and you couldn’t find a clit if the woman drew you a map and marked it with a giant X.” A burst of laughter punctuated the end of my rant. A group of twenty-something women had taken over the neighboring booth, and they were listening to us with rapt attention.
Story Sunday indeed. I hoped one of them recognized Bentley and told everyone they knew about his shortcomings. It was a long shot, but it was what he deserved.
I stood, my smile widening at his indignant sputters. “All that to say, I disrespectfully decline your offer to be your mistress. Don’t contact me again, or I’ll slap you with a restraining order and make sure every single person in your workplace and social circle knows you can’t take no for an answer.”
“You fucking bitch—”
I’d ordered the biggest glass of the darkest red wine, and I didn’t wait for him to finish his trite insult before I tossed the full contents in his face and walked out. Once I was outside, I stopped the recording on my phone and saved it to my files.
I hadn’t decided whether to send it to Georgia yet. She deserved to know what her husband was doing and saying behind her back, but our relationship was complicated, so I held on to it for now.
Bentley didn’t follow me, though I hadn’t expected him to.
My lips curled into a smile at the memory of his mouth hanging open while wine dripped from his hair and chin.
I’d written many film reviews excoriating the cheesy power move of throwing a drink in a guy’s face, but as I hailed a cab to go home, I concluded I’d been wrong.
The move may be cliché, but it was damn satisfying. Sometimes, the rom-coms got it right.
CHAPTER 31
Xavier
Sloane and I spent a quiet Thanksgiving together before I was called away on club business. It was a holiday weekend, but that didn’t stop emails from trickling into my inbox about construction, lighting, inventory, and a million things I had to take care of before the grand opening.
She slept over at my house on Thursday and Friday, but we parted ways on Saturday to take care of our respective work. She acted a little strange when we said goodbye, but I had a feeling spending such a big holiday together had freaked her out, so I didn’t pry. I didn’t want to drive her away by pressing too hard, especially given the week’s events.
I was still torn up about Rhea and Pen, but at least I’d confirmed with my contact about getting the intel I needed. He’d have the first batch ready soon so I could (hopefully) set Sloane’s mind at ease.
Besides Sloane, the only person I saw over the weekend was Luca. He seemed to have gotten over his Leaf spiral and was back to working at his family’s corporate office in the city. Either that, or Dante had put the fear of God in him enough to kick his ass into shape.
I still didn’t know why my father had put Dante on the inheritance committee, and my attempts to ask the man in question had so far been rebuffed.
Maybe Dante was still upset about the time I’d roped Luca into hosting a Vegas penthouse party that ended with the cops shoving us into jail for the night. If so, that didn’t bode well for a favorable vote during my first evaluation, but I’d worry about that later.
I had more pressing matters at hand.
“Our Void system is perfect for this space,” my newest contractor said. “It doesn’t hit the market until late next year, but I’m happy to give you early access.”
“Out of the goodness of your heart, I assume.”
Killian Katrakis gave me an enigmatic smile. Name number seven.
Half-Irish and half-Greek, Killian was the CEO of the Katrakis Group Corporation, an international electronics, technology, and telecommunications conglomerate. They sold everything from cell phones and computers to TVs and commercial sound systems, the latter of which was the reason for his visit today.
Normally, this type of meeting was reserved for the account executives, not the CEO of the entire company. However, Kai had given me a direct line to Killian’s office, and Killian had been surprisingly intrigued when I mentioned where the club was located. He’d insisted on seeing the space and matching it with one of his systems himself.
“I’m a businessman, Xavier,” he said. “I don’t do anything out of the goodness of my heart.” He nodded around us. “The grand opening for this will make headlines around the world because it’s attached to your name. Every club owner out there will take notice and try to compete.”
“That includes buying the same sound system we used on opening night.” I cocked an eyebrow. “You have a lot of faith in my ability to pull this off.”
The reasoning he offered for granting me early access to the Void was a simple one, but I didn’t buy Killian’s concern over publicity for his company’s latest sound system. The entire product vertical made up a fraction of the Katrakis Group’s revenue compared to phones and laptops, but perhaps it was a passion project or a pride thing.
Billionaires were eccentric, and if the rumors were true, the notorious bachelor was eccentric in many ways.
“I have faith because I recognize the same quality in you that I’ve seen in every successful entrepreneur,” Killian said. “Hunger. You don’t want this to work; you need this to work because the club is a reflection of you. If it fails, you fail, and you would do anything not to fail.”
Unease crawled over the back of my neck.
Killian had me pegged to a tee, and we’d met less than an hour ago. Was I really that transparent, or was he really that good?
We finished our walkthrough of the vault. It needed work, but the bones were there—stone floors, original crown moldings, teller enclosures that could be transformed into bottle displays. Once I cleaned it up and installed my design elements, it was going to be a hell of a space.
“Who’s in charge of the design?” Killian asked, savvy enough to steer the conversation toward safer waters after his uncanny psychoanalysis.
“Farrah Lin-Ryan from F&J Creative.” Name number eight. She was the city’s premier interior designer for dining and hospitality spaces.
“Good choice,” Killian said with an approving rumble. “We’ve worked together on a number of projects.”
I knew Farrah was good, but it was reassuring to hear it from someone else.
After a few more questions about the design and a handshake deal, Killian promised to send a contract over and left for another meeting.
