Page 6

DORIAN MOORE

A fog clouds my sleep-deprived mind, blurring the numbers before me. Outside, a white contrail mocks me as it bisects the crisp blue Denver sky high above the Rocky Mountains. What I wouldn’t give to be the pilot of that jet. No phone calls, no reports, no meetings. Solitude and clear blue skies.

“Mr. Moore?”

My assistant stands three feet from my desk. His blue-and-black-striped tie hangs too far left, exposing the line of buttons on his Oxford. My gaze locks on the one undone button.

“What is it, Jay?”

“Mr. Cromwell would like to see you if you have a minute. I know you reserved this time, but I told him I’d check.”

Geoffrey Cromwell, my father’s personal financial advisor, strides in, pretending to be unaware that my assistant planned to ask for permission to meet.

“I’d like a coffee. Black,” he says as he takes a seat, discreetly adjusting his silver tie and smoothing the material on his navy pinstripe trousers.

He recently stopped coloring his hair black, and the overabundance of white gives the appearance of thinning.

Once I adjust to the shock of white, I probably won’t notice anymore.

Why am I even registering the man’s hair?

“I’d like a fresh cup, too,” I say, breathing deeply in an attempt to ignore the dull pain emanating behind my temples. “Thank you, Jay.”

“Did you see the portfolio adjustments I’m making?”

With a push, I roll my office chair to the right for a better view around my monitors.

“Interesting shifts.”

I don’t particularly care what Geoffrey does with the portfolios he manages for my father, but his moves intrigue me.

“Heavy on gold, oil, and gas.” Years ago, Geoffrey bought heavily into crypto. I doubted him, but that move paid off. “And now you’re sitting here. Something you want to share?”

As a board member of Bedrock Advisory, I have reams of reports from the industry’s brightest. I’m not a trader, but speculation interests me.

Geoffrey Cromwell’s speculative record speaks of someone with insider knowledge, the kind that would land him in jail if he ever slips.

It’s fitting that Dad plucked him out of obscurity and claimed him.

“At your next board meeting, encourage your team to follow my strategy.”

I meet his gaze head-on. The man has twenty years on me, but he can fuck all the way off.

“Surely you’re up on the news,” he says, adjusting his position in the seat and smoothing his dress shirt, before crossing an ankle over his knee.

It’s a casual position, but he’s never relaxed.

Always fidgeting. That’s probably why I always expect him to come in with news that he lost a lot of Dad’s money, but he consistently outperforms my personal team.

Jay hustles in with steaming black porcelain coffee mugs. I wait until he sets my new mug down, removes the old one, and exits before responding.

“Enlighten me,” I say, wondering which lobbyist or politician has shared information that recommends a conservative exposure.

“Something’s afoot. Bets are that China is moving in on Taiwan, Russia into Poland. Are you in touch with Nick Ivanov?”

“What does Ivanov have to do with it?”

Nick’s my friend from university, lives in Great Britain, and I don’t recall him ever meeting Geoffrey Cromwell. But, then again, our world is incestuous.

“Figured he’d keep you up to speed.”

I steeple my fingers. “You shift into a conservative stance too early, and you miss opportunities. With a portfolio of Dad’s size, the balance strikes me as unwise.”

“Remind me. How did your portfolio perform last year compared to your father’s?”

“If this is you pitching me on your management services, try again.” I shift my mouse to bring my monitor to life and check the time and my calendar. Fuck, my head hurts. “Why are you here, Geoffrey?”

“Your father asked me to keep you informed. I’m simply executing his wishes.”

I’m on the board of a firm with over half of the United States’s wealth under management, and I founded and run an aerospace company. But yes, Dad would believe I need counsel for the rest of my life.

“How is Zenith doing?” Geoffrey’s question confirms he’s a sixty-something kiss-ass putz.

A voice in my head counters that that’s not fair, that while he works for Dad, he’s also one of his closest friends.

Hot coffee coats my throat, and I close my burning eyes. I’m so fucking tired. The run this morning didn’t wake me enough to deal with my father, and Geoffrey represents him.

Zenith is my company, one I conceptualized and created. Founded for global high-speed internet, I now own more satellites than any government on Earth. It’s privately held, so unfortunately for my father, there’s no earnings call for him to receive a concise update.

“Why?”

The overhead light reflects off Geoffrey’s silver-rimmed spectacles, but I’d bet beneath the reflection, he’s glaring, annoyed with my evasiveness.

The dull pain intensifies, and I close my eyelids, breathing in.

“Everything’s fine. Exceeding forecast.” The sigh that escapes is borderline unprofessional, but he can deal. “I have a meeting in two minutes. Did you need something?”

A flash of indignation crosses Geoffrey’s features.

He pushes up and sets his coffee on my desk. “As always, a pleasure.”

Sarcasm at its finest.

I watch as he leaves.

“Close the door, please,” I call after him.

He doesn’t. Of course, he doesn’t. He’s an ass. Why the hell did he come in person?

The man’s one positive attribute is that he keeps Dad occupied during the day. He’s one of the satellites that orbit Dad, telling him everything he wants to hear and letting him win at golf. Well, it used to be golf. These days, it’s chess, or maybe checkers.

If he’d stay away from me, I wouldn’t find him so annoying.

Jay appears. “Do you need anything, sir?”

“Clear my calendar for the day. Keep the door closed.”

“Sir? You’re scheduled to take a call with the president at two.”

Fuck .

“Can you request an in-person meeting? Tell him I’ll be in Washington next week, and I believe an in-person meeting will be a better use of our time.”

“He should be happy with that. That’s what he requested initially.”

I'm aware.

“Do you need aspirin, sir?” Jay knows me well.

“Yes. Please.” Jay gives a polite nod, and I clarify, “The strong stuff.”

“Yes, sir.”

He leaves the door cracked, and when he returns, he deposits my Vicodin prescription on my desk and removes Geoffrey’s coffee.

“Thank you, Jay.”

I pop my pills and open a drawer, remove a secure satellite phone, and dial a number I’ve memorized.

It rings continually until the voicemail answers.

Realization dawns in my fogged brain, and I don’t bother leaving a message. If he had any relevant information, Nick would share it.

Damn the fog in my brain. I need a stronger sleep aid. I can’t go on like this.

Me to Unknown number

Are you available to meet?

I’m about to set the phone down when a text comes through.

Halston Moore, Jr.

Has the plan been executed?

I squint to read the message. I do not wish to speak to my father, so take the easy route.

Me to Halston Moore, Jr:

Yes. Per your instructions.

Unknown number

Tell me where.

I pause, weighing options that offer a discreet location without eavesdroppers.

My desk phone rings. I press the speaker button.“Yes, Jay?”

“Lewis Weston is on the line.”

The name is familiar, but I can’t place it.

“He’s stationed at the guardhouse today. He’d like to talk to you. I told him you cleared your day, but he said this is important.”

Fuck .

“Put him through.”

What the hell is my father up to now?

“Mr. Moore?” a male voice asks.

“This is he.” I close my eyes and exhale. “Everything okay?”

Clearly, it’s not. He’s calling.

“Hi, ah, sorry to bother you at work, sir, but you have a visitor. She says she’s not leaving until she sees you. It’s a Ms. Caroline Scott.”

Her name strikes directly to my solar plexus. I rub the pain point and stretch, then crack my jaw.

She’s here.

No call.

And you know why she’s here.

“Tell her I’ll be there in thirty minutes.”

A slight tremor affects my fingers. I stretch them, spreading them wide to gain control.

With a deep breath, the tremor subsides.

I delete the incomplete text and shoot off a different one.

Me to Jay:

Prep my helicopter. Need to get home ASAP.

“Lewis?” I ask the speakerphone.

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t let her leave. Understand? Under no circumstances are you to let her leave.”

“Ah, she’s not on our list, sir. If she’s a threat, it’s best you?—”

“She’s not a threat.” Jesus fucking Christ. “Keep her there.”

“Yes, sir. Will do.”

A memory surfaces, and my gut cramps.

“Lewis?”

“Yes, sir?”

“Don’t let my father know she’s there. Keep her out of the way, but don’t let her leave. I’m on my way.”

“Certainly.”

I slam the receiver down and charge out the door, cell phone in hand. I don’t bother with my unpacked briefcase.

The room sways. Dammit .

“Jay? Is it ready?”

He’s at the elevator, holding the door for me.

Good man .

“Yes, sir.”

“With a pilot?” I often fly myself, but Jay knows I’m medicated.

“Yes, sir. There’s no meeting on your calendar, sir. Did I overlook?—”

“No.”

The doors slide closed on my disconcerted assistant.

Don’t worry, Jay. This isn’t on you. It’s all on me.