“Sir?” His assistant, Willow, poked their head in. They were nonbinary, usually wearing a suit and tie for work while keeping their long red hair in a tidy bun. Occasionally they wore eyeshadow behind the ever-changing frames of their glasses, and they changed their colorful shades of nail polish almost daily. “The board is assembled and ready for you.”

“One minute.” He handed Willow the notes he’d scribbled as he’d made his way from the jet to the helipad on top of this tower.

He should have been first to the meeting and was already ten minutes late, but he took out his phone and found the number for Smythe’s in his contacts.

“Mr. Montgomery.” The smooth, feminine voice of Ms. Smythe greeted him in her cool boarding-school accent. “How may I serve you today? I have an opening in an hour.”

“I’m in New York,” he replied. “But I’d like to purchase some earrings. Something like you showed me last time.” He’d intended to give Julie a pair to wear to the gala, but Fliss deserved something he picked out especially for her. “Something with blue in them.” The shade of her gown was imprinted in his memory forever.

“Contemporary? Let me text you a few photos. One moment.”

Smythe’s was a mystery—both shop and owner—but Saint had been warned that prying would result in his no longer receiving invitations to shop there, which would be a pity. He’d dealt with many high-end jewelry merchants throughout his adult life, and Ms. Smythe of Knightsbridge was the best. She was professional and discreet. Her gemstones were ethically sourced and always of the highest quality, the settings one of a kind. Saint occasionally bought investment pieces but more often purchased a parting gift when a liaison was wrapping up.

Today he was looking for more of a welcome gift.

His phone pinged. He flicked through the photos. One showed a chandelier of blue sapphires in yellow gold; another was a platinum cuff with alternate rows of diamonds and sapphires.

“The ones with the marquis diamonds,” he told Ms. Smythe. The earrings were the size of a silver dollar. The leaf-shaped white diamonds formed a laurel wreath around an eye-catching twist of round-cut blue sapphires. They radiated elegance and graceful artistry but maintained a playful quality that he thought suited Fliss.

“A lovely choice. Are these for delivery, or shall I hold them for you?”

“Delivery. Her name is Fliss.” His inner beast had been too focused on sex to ask for her number before she’d fallen asleep. “She’s a fashion designer, but you’ll have to do some legwork for me.”

Saint had peeked into her purse on his way out the door. He’d found a twenty-pound note, her smartphone, which had been locked, a pair of physical door keys—who even used those anymore?—an invitation to the gala, an Oyster card and a lip gloss. Not even a driver’s license or a debit card to give him her full name.

The gala invitation had had Delia Chevron’s name on it, which made sense. A model would have friends in fashion. He’d written his number on the card, then slipped away.

“Check the hotel,” he said to Ms. Smythe, mentioning the one he always used when visiting London. “If she’s still in the room, you can deliver to her there.” He had meant to take care of this while he’d been flying to ensure he wouldn’t miss her, but so much for that. She’d worn him out, and he’d needed his beauty sleep. “If she’s already gone, contact Delia Chevron. They were supposed to attend last night’s art gala together, so she’ll know how to reach her.”

Actually, Fliss had said she had known her date wouldn’t be there. Saint spared a moment to ponder that. He’d been so taken with her, he’d glossed over how cagey she’d been about her reason for attending and leaving before it had really started.

“I’d love an excuse to connect with Ms. Chevron.” Ms. Smythe’s warm voice redirected his thoughts back to the business at hand. “I’ll be in touch once your gift has been delivered.”

“Thank you.” He ended the call and strode down the hall to begin the presentation he would have to make up on the fly.

He wasn’t worried. He had spent the last year and a half taking a new approach to military-grade encryption software, personally establishing proof of concept before writing the code for the prototype. This was his baby, and he knew it inside and out.

His father preferred to spearhead product innovation. That would be the stumbling block. Theodore Montgomery had an ego to match the fortune and tech empire he’d built. His control of Grayscale was of the tight, iron-fist variety. In his mind, he was the only genius in the family. His son was far more suited to what Fliss had called “glad-handing.”

Saint knew this software would be his contribution to the legacy of his name, though. It would allow him to step out from under his father’s shadow and be seen as an innovator in his own right. A leader of the next generation in the technological revolution.

The project was ready for the next stage of development. He needed a team of top-tier programmers to build it out, improve the interface, test it, refine it, then take it to market. That required a huge investment of time, money and other resources. Since it would also become Grayscale’s next flagship product, he needed the board on board.

“Good morning,” he said as he entered the room filled with middle-aged suits and skirts. On the screen at one end of the room were another half dozen faces, all pinched with expressions of disapproval. His father looked at his watch.

Willow, first-class executive assistant with a minor in miracle making, had translated Saint’s chicken scratch into slides that appeared with the click of a button.

Saint dove straight into his business case, emphasizing the value and benefits this software would have for Grayscale, including its appeal to both high-level institutions and small-business users.

“We already offer encryption software,” someone said.

“This one is better.” It was sacrilege to claim anything his father had designed needed improvement, but it did. “This will become the preferred solution,” Saint promised.

The protests kept coming, though, making Saint look to his father, starting to suspect that Ted had poisoned the well before Saint had entered the room.

“You’re asking for a lot of money to make a copycat product.”

“Are you really prepared to take on a project this complex and carry it across the line? It could take years.”

“There’s a difference between charm and leadership, Saint.”

“Don’t hold back,” Saint drawled to hide his irritation. “Tell me what you really think of me.”

“We think it’s half-baked, son,” Ted Montgomery said. “Did you not pick up on that?”

“Of course it’s half-baked. That’s why I’m here. To get an oven,” he shot back.

“It feels premature,” the CFO said soothingly while looking around to collect nods of agreement.

“No problem.” Holding his father’s stare, Saint said, “I’ll start my own company and develop it myself.” It was the contingency plan he had hoped not to need. It would be far more convenient to develop this under the Grayscale umbrella. It would integrate better, and he didn’t want it to belong to anyone else when he eventually inherited Grayscale.

“With my money? You’re exactly like your mother,” his father accused in his scoffing way, right there in front of the assembled board. “You think you can help yourself to what’s behind door number three and use it for whatever pissant idea arrives in your head.”

“Actually, Dad, I’m exactly like you.” Saint took his ire and offense and any other emotion he was currently experiencing and condensed it inside himself. He became his father, sharp and hard and clear as a diamond. Able to cut through anything. “This is a business decision. I’m about to revolutionize the sector. If you’re so shortsighted that you want to cut me off financially, I’ll pick up the phone and ask one of our competitors to develop this with me. Frankly, I’d prefer to focus on this without the distraction of running Grayscale.”

Which he did run, whether his father wanted to acknowledge that or not.

Ted wore the title of president and had the final say on top-level decisions, but his social skills were abysmal. Saint spent half his life on a plane. Under the guise of schmoozing, he kept an eye on the executives in their global offices, ironing out wrinkles before they became problems. He resolved sticky issues around politics and international regulations and carried the emotional burden of those who were frustrated by his father’s closed-minded leadership so his father wasn’t bothered by power struggles and other conflicts.

“I’m well aware you regard this company as a distraction,” Ted said with heavy sarcasm, waving toward the screen mounted on the wall. It was back to showing the remote board members, but Saint got the message that his name and face were appearing on screens for all the wrong reasons, thanks to Julie. “You couldn’t even stay for dinner last night because you were chasing a new skirt. Clean up your act, son. Show me you’re serious about taking the reins, and maybe I could think about retiring. Then you can pour my money into whatever hairbrained scheme you like.”

Saint snorted. “You’re never going to retire.”

The man was seventy and came into the office daily so he could bark orders and continue to feel important. The power he’d amassed here was the only thing that gave him anything close to a sense of satisfaction with his life.

Saint turned his attention to the room at large.

“Just so we’re clear, this prototype was built on my own time, on my own equipment, by me. It’s mine,” he said. “There are people intrigued enough by what I create to want to steal it. They know what I did with the early AI configurations, and they want to know what I’m up to next.” That was why Julie had been nudged by her debtors to copy his files. “My work has value. Maybe not to you, but I won’t let that slow me down.”

He gathered up his laptop and walked out.

“Saint.” One of his allies on the board caught him outside the door. “Don’t do anything rash. Give me some time to change some minds. There are a lot of people on your side.” He nodded toward the boardroom.

“Oh, really,” Saint snorted.

“Especially when it comes to your eventual rise to the throne. But they can’t get behind you unless they know you’re ready. Maybe take your father’s advice? Showing up late today only gave everyone a chance to gossip about you. Maybe if they didn’t have anything to gossip about...”

Saint hated to back down or put off his goals, but he also knew his father wasn’t stupid. Ted might have flexed his muscles for their audience, but when it came to dollars and sense, he would do what was best for Grayscale.