Page 2

Relief washes over Owen.
Who is he making a deal with that has him so on edge? I hope it’s not George Davies. That wanker is shady as fuck.
“I could kiss you right now,” he says, grinning as he puckers his lips and makes obnoxious kissy noises.
I drive my elbow into his stomach, forcing a sharp grunt out of him as he doubles over. “Cut the shit, Clarke.”
“Nah, you love me.”
“You have a wife, for Christ’s sake. If you wanted a husband, you should have thought about that before putting a ring on Gemma’s finger.”
He bursts out laughing, and I try to keep my smile at bay. I enjoy being a grumpy arsehole.
Joking around with Owen comes naturally. I’ve been living in London for seventeen years now, and I can say with complete certainty—he is the only person who saw past mynew moneystatus and offered me his friendship without hesitation.
When I moved here for uni, I was like any other eighteen-year-old kid—goofy, loud, and full of dreams.
But what I thought was normal didn’t fit here. Yes, I had money. But mine didn’t come from nobility. It came from the hard work of a French immigrant in Chile.
I was quickly labeledless than—and I took it to heart.
Except for Owen. He stuck with me from the get-go.
So I adapted. I lost my accent and buried my customs—I just wanted to fit in.
With time, people stopped seeing me asdifferentand accepted the person I became—a ruthless negotiator with a knack for closing tough deals. I tripled my family’s fortune, and once people saw what I was capable of, they stopped caring about where I came from.
But sometimes, I wonder—will I ever truly fit in back in Chile?
That’s all my father wants—for me to move back and take over the family vineyard. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been able to give him an answer. Because in trying so hard to belonghere, I lost the version of myself that belongedthere.
I became someone I know wouldn’t be able to function in Chile.
“Any plans for tonight?” Owen calls from the shower, yanking me out of my thoughts.
I walk into a stall two showers down and start cleaning myself after sweating for almost an hour.
“Not really. I need to see what’s going on tonight. Maybe Mrs. Evans left me something on my desk to work on.”
“What? No. You need to go out. Spend some money. Live the life.” He scoffs.
That used to be my life. And I loved every single minute of it—until I didn’t. Now, I just don’t find joy in going out to clubs or having meaningless sex with strangers. Something is fucking wrong with me.
“Wait, didn’t Mrs. Evans just retire?” Owen asks.
All the blood drains from my brain, and I freeze mid-scrub. “Shit.”
“You forgot? You arsehole.” Owen’s laugh echoes off the bathroom walls. “That lady has been working for you for ages, and you forgot about her retirement? Damn, you’re a worse boss than I am.”
I try to remember if there was a farewell party or even a plan to celebrate her. Mrs. Evans has been my assistant since I finished uni and took over managing my family’s money. And she was oldthen. Yeah, she definitely needed to retire.
Fuck. Who’s going to be my assistant now? How is it possible that I manage the largest privately owned wealth of Chile, yet I can’t remember my assistant retiring—or figure out how to replace her?
“I have to go. I’ll see you next week,” I say, rinsing the soap off as fast as I can.
I turn off the water and grab a towel, my mind racing.
“I’ll text you the details for the meeting on Monday,” Owen says as I towel myself off and throw on the first thing I see in my locker—a Balmain tracksuit.