Page 116 of Beautiful Lies

Isla was asleep in my arms, her head on my chest, soft and warm and right where I wanted her. Then the first call came through.

Tony, our head of compliance, called to tell me a cross-border regulatory flag stalled the Zurich wire transfer, so the ten-million deposit we were expecting never cleared.

The moment Tony said the words, I knew I wasn’t getting on that jet with Isla and I’d be tied up in New York.

The block triggered an anti–money laundering review and a full verification check on the funds. All of it landed on my shoulders because the money was frozen and my name was stamped across every page of the Zurich deal.

Legal and Compliance demanded my presence, as no one else could authorize the override.

My father tried to step in, but this one belonged to me.

And sorting it out ate up the entire damn day.

Disaster number two hit an hour later.

I was finally ready to head to Italy when Claude Deville, one of the Zurich partners, claimed he’d found a discrepancy—in his fuckinghumbleopinion—in the closing documents.

I was scheduled to meet him in Italy tomorrow, but instead, he emailed demanding a “personal clarification” on the projected 4.6% variance in the Q3 return schedule.

And he wanted to see me the moment I landed.

Any of my analysts could’ve answered his questions with their eyes closed.

Hell, the explanation was already in the spreadsheet—highlighted.

But that wasn’t the point.

He wantedme.

He wanted to watch me jump through his bureaucratic hoops because of a scandal I paid for years ago.

A petty power play wrapped in polite corporate language.

I wanted nothing more than to see Isla, but I played nice and danced to his tune because the final sign-offs and settlement verifications still needed to be handled correctly.

I didn’t want to make my father look bad. There are already whispers on the grapevine that I’ll be taking over soon, so every move I make has eyes on it.

Clients need to trust me the way they trust him.

But it cost me.

Now I’m in Italy, in the boardroom of our Tuscany office, and Claude Deville is sitting across from me, talking shit that could’ve waited.

My only saving grace is that Dorian flew out with me.

Since he’s the accounts manager for the Zurich deal, he figured his presence would take the edge off.

It has… but only to some degree.

The worst part is, every second spent in this boardroom has felt like someone tightening a noose around my neck.

I should have called Isla. Or even messaged. But neither felt like it was enough because I knew she’d be mad at me for sending her ahead by herself.

But at least some contact would have been something

I haven’t stopped thinking about getting to her.

Claude taps a finger on the printed spreadsheet, his bushy gray brows pulled together in a frown. “You see, this line here.” His accent is crisp. “The 4.6 percent variance raises questions. Questions, I might add, that your team should have anticipated.”