I have to arrive at the restaurant for opening night in less than an hour, but I have one other human factor that must be addressed before I can leave my apartment in Midtown.
Edward answers my phone call after three rings. “Hello.”
“I think you should skip tonight,” I say, cutting straight to the point.
“Mate, what are you talking about? I’m not leaving you hanging tonight.”
“Thank you, but we’ll be fine without you. Showing up on opening night, when everyone will already be stressed, won’t make anything easier.”
He chuckles. “Mate, you don’t have to say ‘everyone’ when you’re only referring to Alice.”
I take a deep breath to stifle the curse words on the tip of my tongue. “I don’t have the time to argue the point. I have to be at the restaurant in less than an hour. Do I have your word you won’t show up tonight? I can book you a reservation for a day she’s not on the schedule.”
“I’ve had this planned for months: dinner at my brother’s fantastic new restaurant, drinks with colleagues and the new girl, afterward. Sorry, mate. Rescheduling is not in the cards.”
I nod as I realize this is how he wants to play it. “Fine. But if you give any of my employees a difficult time—any of them—you will regret it, brother.”
He doesn’t say anything for a long while. “I don’t doubt you truly believe that. Want to know what I believe?”
“What do you believe?”
“I believe I called a few hotels near Henry’s Restaurant Supply the morning after we last spoke. And I believe the Poughkeepsie Grand Hotel regretfully informed me a Mr. Ethan Thorne and his lovely brunette companion had only just left.” He pauses for me to absorb this information before he continues. “Let’s not forget who brought the Forked acquisition to your attention. And if you want to talk about regret... Do you think Cristian would regret advocating for this deal if he knew you were going to use it to shag his daughter?”
“You’re really threatening me?” I say, incredulous at the lengths he’s willing to go to control me. “I thought you might be emotional last we spoke. You know, maybe a bit jealous of me for spending the night with Alice, but—”
“So, you admit you slept with her?”
“We shared a hotel room. I did not sleep with her,” I reply.
I’m fully cognizant of the semantics involved in this white lie. Alice and I technically slept in the same bed, but, unfortunately, we did not sleep together in the sense Edward is implying. But even if I had shagged Alice, I wouldn’t give a toss what Edward—or Cristian—have to say about it, because I’d be too bloody chuffed to care.
“I don’t think the specifics will matter to Cristian or Greenwood Capital,” Edward says, once again reminding me of the stakes.
I press my lips together, nodding as my mind scrambles for a graceful exit out of this conversation, but my mind is drawing a blank. And, quite frankly, I’m growing tired of Edward’s blackmail. I knew he wanted to turn our careers into a competition the moment he chose to attend a different culinary school than I did. But I never expected him to take our rivalry to this level.
“If you think you can control me by threatening to have my funding revoked, you’ve seriously overestimated how much I need Greenwood’s money.”
He cackles so loudly I have to hold my mobile a few inches away from my ear. “I know you didn’t need the funding when you invested. But now that you have it, it’s kind of set in stone.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“Mate, you seem to be forgetting something very important: the funding clause in the bankruptcy plan.”
“What about it?”
“If you lose your funding, control of the restaurant reverts back to the court trustee. And the trustee may or may not allow you to invest your own capital, since that would reduce your debt-to-income ratio. American finance, mate. Might want to read up on how the system works before you decide to invest in it.”
What Edward is implying is, should Cristian decide to not sign off on the final funding phase, the restaurant will be confiscated by the court, so it can be sold off to pay the former owner’s debts. Even if I offer to fund the rest of the project with my own money, the court trustee may not agree to this.
I would have never used Greenwood Capital if it wasn’t for Edward’s recommendation.
I disconnect the call without saying goodbye and drop my mobile onto the coffee table as if it’s a hot pan. My vision blurs with rage as I contemplate whether this entire scenario—Edward bringing the Forked buyout to my attention, suggesting I use Cristian’s VC firm, then suggesting I hire Alice—was orchestrated from the beginning.
But why? Does my brother really resent my success that much? Is he really that gutted over Alice walking out on him?
The longer I consider these questions, the more I begin to see the blueprint of Edward’s plan unfolding before me. Until, finally, my mind lands on a memory that brings everything slightly more into focus.
When Edward came to London to spend Christmas with us last year, and to beg me to bail him out of the financial hole he’d dug with his restaurant project, he looked utterly defeated. We spent four days at my parents’ flat in Battersea. I didn’t agree to help him until day four, but Edward’s demeanor changed halfway through our stay. Something else raised my brother’s spirits last Christmas.
I have two options now.
I can proceed with Alice however I want and risk losing my funding and my restaurant.
Or I can simply play by Edward’s rules and leave Alice alone.
As winding and treacherous as the first road appears, I’ve never been one to play it safe.
Chapter 11
ALICE
When I enter the kitchen at Forked, looking for Ollie, I’m caught off my guard by the huge grin that spreads across Ethan’s face when he sees me. I flash him a soft, dreamy smile, realizing too late that this may come across as flirting.
Forcing a serious expression, I turn to Ollie. “I have a message for you.”
She glances at Ethan, then back to me. “For me? What is it?”
“A woman just called. She said her name was Elizabeth Hardley, and she was booked as the photographer for the opening, but she won’t be able to make it due to a family emergency.”
“What?” Ethan and Ollie both exclaim at the same time.
I flinch at their strong reaction. “I just—”
“Is she on the phone right now?” Ollie pleads.
“No. I asked if she wanted to speak to you, but she said she was at the hospital and didn’t have time to hold.”
Both Ethan and Ollie look ready to strangle someone, giving me the impression I should slink out of the kitchen for my own safety.
“I’m on it,” Ollie says to Ethan and quickly exits the kitchen.
“I’m sorry,” I say before I can stop myself.
Ethan’s eyes meet mine and something seems to shift inside him, as if he suddenly remembers where he is. The muscle in his jaw relaxes, and he becomes visibly more at ease.
“No need to apologize,” he reminds me. “I’m sure Ollie will find a replacement for the photographer. And if she doesn’t, this is New York. We can probably step outside and find a dozen amateur photographers within eyesight.”