10. Alcohol and parties between 10:30 P.M. and 7 A.M.
Lucy tilted her head from across the table, studying me. I angled my pen to block her view of the pad.
Are you on drugs or is this your pathetic bucket list?
The ledger sat in my safe. Delilah knew it existed, but she didn't know what the contents held. Really, I should have confessed to Emery by now. It possessed enough evidence to free Gideon of all accusations.
No more hiding out in Blithe for him. He’d be able to visit his daughter without fear of a mob. She could drop the Rhodes last name and become a Winthrop again.
But—fucking but—it meant a possible jail sentence for me. I wanted one damn month of me and Emery on some stranded island, talking, laughing, fucking on every inch of the beach before I spent twenty years in jail.
(I Google’d it. That was the maximum sentence for insider trading, not to mention the whole burning evidence thing.)
Delilah slid the pad to me.
No, just listing illegal things to do in Singapore. Now, imagine the strict property laws. But go ahead. Try closing remotely and fuck up this deal WE’ve been working on for years. (And by we, I mean ME, while you obsessed on the sidelines.)
She had a point.
I obsessed over this project.
Sitting on the roof of the building next door, I’d never felt closer to Dad. The skyscraper boasted nearly eighty floors. I bribed so many politicians in the past several years, just to rezone mine for one-hundred-and-thirty floors.
Higher than the fucking Empire State, the Shanghai Tower, and the Makkah Clock Tower.
Dad.
Emery.
Having to make this choice should have compared to voluntarily sticking my neck under a tractor. It didn’t.
The consequences hurt, yes, but choosing Emery came easy.
“Eat a Snickers, Asher. You’re too you when you’re hungry.” I tossed Delilah’s pad in the trash and stood. “Prescott Hotels formally withdraws from this auction.”
Everyone in this room—aside from Lucy, and seriously what the fuck—shared dumbstruck expressions.
Delilah recovered first. “Excuse me while I confer with my client.” In the hallway, she paced twice and rounded on me. “What the hell, Nash?!”
“Careful, D.” I made a show of studying her forehead. “Those wrinkles are showing. I count one, two—”
“This is not funny.” Delilah Jr., that vein on her temple, looked ten seconds from bursting. “Do you know how long I've worked to make this happen for you?”
“I've compensated you for your time.” I swallowed and turned away.
Even with the burn of her disappointment, the decision felt easy. I picked Emery. Simple as that.
“It's not the money or the time. It's the fact that I worked my ass off, knowing how much this project meant to you… And now you’re pulling out? Why?”
I didn’t answer.
Her head whipped back. She rocked on her heel and gave me a shit-eating grin. “It's Emery, isn't it?”
I said nothing, waiting this out.
She continued, still with that fucking smile. “I always knew you were capable of falling in love.” With that, she turned and walked to the room.
“Delilah?”
She paused, fingers on the door handle. “Yeah?”
“Thank you.”
Her brows shot up, like she couldn’t believe I’d uttered a thank you. You'd think I was a fucking monster or something.
“Let’s get you your girl.”
I spent the flight back to the U.S. lamenting the fact that I had to choose between buying a new charger and taking the first flight out of Singapore.
With only one seat available, Delilah stayed behind. I tried to feel bad about it, but A—I wanted to return home to Emery and B—Delilah seemed excited to maul the Singaporean street food. So, really, she should thank me.
Free trip to Singapore on the company.
By the time I landed, I had zero patience for customs. I cut past people when they stopped paying attention—and did it again even when they did pay attention.
At the kiosk, I handed the customs officer my passport, ignoring the irritated whispers of the people I’d skipped over.
The officer swiped the passport and tilted his head at the screen. He swiped it again.
“Is there a problem?” I glanced at my watch.
It had taken nineteen hours to fly from D.C. to Singapore, then twenty-five hours to fly from Singapore to North Carolina with a quick layover that required me to sprint from one end of the airport to the other like I was Eric fucking Liddell.
With the meeting, all in, Emery hadn’t heard from me in over two days.
I blinked away the jet lag, in time to catch the officer waving a coworker over. “If this is about cutting in line, can we hold off the time-out until tomorrow? Fuck.”
“Sir, come with me.” Officer Two snagged my passport from Officer One and led me to a back room, while I wondered what the hell was going on.
A metal bench pushed against the wall in the corner. The rectangular table filled the space, two chairs on each side. It looked like the mall cop version of an interrogation room.
I arched a brow and turned to the officer. “Do I need to call my attorney?”
Goddamnit, Delilah.
She was probably scarfing down bah kut teh on an overcrowded street this very second. Also, even if I had a call to use, my phone had powered down, and I hadn’t memorized any numbers.
“Sir, I need you to lower your voice and calm down.”
“I am fucking calm.”
“A law enforcement agency has placed a flag on your passport.” The officer gestured to a seat. “Please, wait here while we alert the appropriate authorities.”
Appropriate authorities.
“Goddamn rent-a-cops.” I made a show of yawning and laying on the table instead of sitting on a chair.
The first hour pissed me off.
The second hour made me stir crazy.
And on the third hour, the puzzle pieces fell into place. The door swung open, and the ‘appropriate authority’ walked in.
Brandon Vu.
Since I didn’t get a note this morning, or yesterday morning, or the morning before that, or the morning before that… I’ve decided to be proactive and leave you one.
Before you ask, no, I will not come back to you.
Emery
P.S. You’re a bad stitch job that can’t be undone. No matter how hard I try to untangle us, we become messier than when we began.
Bile chased my breath.
I chugged half a bottle of water, hoping it'd make me less queasy.
Nope.
Still a quarter second from spewing my empty stomach all over the floor.
I’d felt this way since realizing Nash had kept a ledger that could exonerate my Dad for almost eight years. I’d gone through every scenario, trying to justify it, but Ceiling always cut through the bullshit.
I tried again.
“Maybe he thought Dad participated in the scandal?”
Ceiling: You are worse than a broken record. At least record players can be turned off. Let me say it slower this time—he took you to see your Dad. Repeatedly. Why would he do that if he thought your dad was guilty?