Page 1 of Damaged Mogul

Chapter 1

Lily

My eyes bounce around the space as I follow the maître d’.

The pale white walls, sheer drapes, soaring ceiling, and large windows contribute to the airiness of this gourmet New York restaurant. Unlike so many expensive eateries in the city, it doesn’t have that harsh modern edge that can be quite off-putting. On the contrary, the décor at Jean-Georges is welcoming.

The coveted restaurant, located near Central Park,is packed.

Men in impeccable bespoke suits and women in their finest couture eat, drink, and laugh.

Your average Tuesday evening in New York City.

This is my first time at the three Michelin starred restaurant. If the wonderful aroma floating in the air and the glimpse of mouthwatering food I caught along the way are any indication, I’m in for a treat.

My father is sitting at a table near the large windows.

He isn’t alone.

My face sours a bit when I spot who he’s with.

Oh, God, not her.

Is it too late to run?

My father’s eyes lock onto mine and he lifts a hand.

Crap.

He gets to his feet. So does his irritable side piece, towering over him.

Fisher Edgington thinks big, talks big, deals big, plays big, and lives big. Perhaps God knew his massive ego would be too much to bear for us mere mortals if it were accompanied by soaring height. To my father’s irritation, he only stands five-feet-eight––much taller than me, but significantly shorter than his model-tall girlfriend who has a penchant for wearing five-inch heels.

We reach my father’s table.

“Mr. Edgington, your guest has arrived,” the maître d’ says. “I’ll send a waiter over.”

“Thank you,” my father says.

With that, the maître d’ excuses himself with a bow, and moves his attention to another table.

We stare at each other for a long beat, my eyes bouncing from my father’s icy blue gaze to the brunette forty years his junior who’s draped around his arm like a poison ivy vine.

My father clears his throat. “I’ll meet you at your place when I’m done with Lily.” He dismisses his girlfriend.

Thank you, God.

In the six weeks I’ve been back to New York, I’ve had to see too much of her for my liking.

“Nom nom, I can’t wait.” Her voice drips with a suggestive tone.

Yuck.

“Be good.” My father winks.

She runs her fingers through his salt and pepper hair. “I’ll try, but I can’t promise.”

If this continues, I’m going to have to excuse myself to go to the bathroom and barf.