Page 18

Easton

The first hint of dawn filtered through the floor-to-ceiling windows of my penthouse, casting Harlow's sleeping form in gentle golden light.

Her dark hair spilled across my pillow, one arm draped possessively across my chest, her breathing deep and even.

I allowed myself a moment to simply watch her—to memorize the peaceful curve of her lips, the fan of her lashes against her cheeks, the solid warmth of her body pressed against mine.

Just days ago, this woman had been my professional nemesis. Now she was my accidental wife, my unexpected ally, and something far more dangerous—someone I was beginning to need.

As if sensing my thoughts, her eyes fluttered open, hazel depths with amber flecks adjusting to the morning light. Confusion registered briefly before recognition dawned, followed by something softer that tightened my chest.

"Morning," she murmured, voice husky with sleep.

"Morning." I brushed a strand of hair from her face, letting my fingers linger against her cheek. "How did you sleep?"

"Better than I should have, considering." She stretched against me, her body a delicious friction that threatened to derail my thoughts. "You?"

"In fits and starts," I admitted. The betrayal had played on endless loop behind my closed eyelids—Bryce accessing my safe, photographing the documents, the calculated precision of his movements. A friendship of fifteen years transformed into evidence of treachery.

Harlow propped herself up on one elbow, studying my face with that penetrating gaze that seemed to see through every defense I'd built over the years.

"You're thinking about confronting him," she said. Not a question.

I nodded, tracing idle patterns on her bare shoulder. "I've arranged for him to come in for what he thinks is a routine budget meeting. Nine o'clock."

"How do you want to handle it?"

The question held no judgment, no directive—just the simple acknowledgment that this was my call to make. Another surprising gift from this woman who had once shown no mercy in her professional judgments.

"Directly. With evidence. No room for denial." I closed my eyes briefly, memories flooding back unbidden. "God, Harlow, I've known him since Stanford. Freshman dorm. He's the one who convinced me to pivot from tech to hospitality in the first place."

Her hand found mine, fingers interlacing with a reassuring pressure. "Tell me about him. The Bryce you knew."

The invitation to share this piece of my past felt oddly intimate—more so than the physical closeness we'd shared. I spoke without the careful filters I typically employed.

"We were roommates by random assignment.

He was pre-law, I was computer science. Complete opposites on paper.

But we both came from middle-class families, both had something to prove.

" The memories carried a bittersweet ache now.

"When I launched my first startup, he dropped law school to handle the business side.

Said he believed in my vision more than his own. "

"And when you sold the company?"

"He followed me into hospitality without hesitation.

Learned an entirely new industry from scratch.

Stood beside me when you shut down my first casino.

" The irony wasn't lost on me—the man who'd supported me through Harlow's regulatory crackdown had been undermining me all along.

"He was the best man at my cousin's wedding.

Godfather to my sister's kid. Family, not just a colleague. "

Harlow's expression held compassion without pity—a distinction that meant everything in this moment. "You don't have to face him alone," she said softly. "I can be there, or not. Whatever you need."

The offer struck me with unexpected force. How long had it been since anyone had asked what I needed rather than what I could provide? Even in business relationships where I held all the power, there was always an undercurrent of expectation, of performance.

"Stay," I said, the word emerging more vulnerable than intended. "I want you there."

She nodded, her fingers tightening around mine. "Then I'm there. Professional capacity or personal support?"

"Both," I admitted. "Your investigative perspective. And..." I hesitated, unaccustomed territory for a man who prided himself on always having the right words. "And I think I'll be steadier with you in the room."

Instead of responding verbally, she leaned forward and pressed her lips to mine in a kiss that held none of last night's desperate passion but something equally powerful—understanding, alliance, a promise of standing together against whatever came next.

When she pulled back, her expression had shifted to something more practical. "We should establish a strategy. What's your endgame here? Criminal charges? Private settlement? Public statement?"

I pushed myself up against the headboard, grateful for the pivot toward tactical considerations. "All of the above. I need a recorded confession for legal purposes, but I also need to control the narrative before Enzo turns this into a scandal that tanks the Jade Petal before we even open."

"You're thinking several moves ahead." Approval colored her tone. "I'll need to prepare questions that establish intent, timeline, and extent of damages."

"While I focus on getting him to admit to everything," I added. "The embezzlement, the sabotage, his connection to Enzo."

"Partners," she said, and though the word was simple, it carried weight far beyond our immediate crisis.

"Partners," I echoed, realizing how right it felt—this woman who had once been my professional adversary now standing beside me as we faced a far more personal betrayal.

I leaned in to kiss her again, needing the connection, the reminder that not everything in my world was falling apart.

What began as comfort quickly evolved into something more heated as her hands slid up my chest and into my hair.

Her body pressed against mine with delicious intent, momentarily driving thoughts of betrayal from my mind.

"We have an hour before we need to get ready," she murmured against my lips, her meaning unmistakable.

"An hour," I agreed, rolling her beneath me as sunlight spilled across the bed. "Let's make it count."

***

At precisely nine o'clock, Bryce Delacroix stepped off the executive elevator into my office.

One look at him confirmed what the security footage had already told us—he was unraveling.

His normally impeccable appearance showed subtle signs of distress: slightly creased suit, shadowed eyes, a faint tremor in the hand that clutched his tablet.

"Morning," he said, his gaze immediately landing on Harlow, who sat unobtrusively in the corner of my office. Surprise flickered briefly across his features before he masked it. "I didn't realize we'd have company for the budget review."

"Investigator Clarke has some insights on our financial projections," I replied, gesturing for him to take a seat opposite my desk. I kept my tone deliberately casual, reining in the anger simmering beneath the surface. "Particularly regarding some interesting patterns she's identified."

Bryce's eyes darted between us, calculation evident in his expression. "Patterns?"

"Mmm." I turned to my computer screen, pulling up the quarterly financial summary. "Before we get to that, walk me through the Q2 numbers. I'm seeing some discrepancies in the operational expenses."

Relief visibly washed over him as he shifted into familiar territory. "Right, so we're tracking about four percent above projected on the construction side, but we've offset that with efficiencies in staffing and procurement."

For the next twenty minutes, I let him talk, watching as his confidence returned. Harlow remained silent, though I felt her attention like a physical presence—sharp, focused, missing nothing as Bryce dug himself deeper with each fabrication.

Finally, when he'd finished his presentation with a flourish about our "strong position heading into opening," I reached into my desk drawer.

"Impressive work, Bryce," I said, pulling out a manila folder. "Just one question, though."

"Shoot."

I opened the folder and withdrew several surveillance photographs, laying them carefully on the desk between us. "Why did you access my private safe at 11:47 last night?"

The blood drained from his face so rapidly I thought he might faint. His mouth opened and closed, no sound emerging.

"We have it all on video," I continued, my voice deceptively calm. "The executive override code. The photographs you took of the documents. Your careful replacement of everything exactly as you found it."

"I—I can explain," he stammered.

"Please do." I leaned back in my chair, fighting to keep my expression neutral despite the betrayal burning through my veins.

Harlow shifted slightly in her seat, the movement drawing Bryce's panicked gaze.

"Mr. Delacroix," she said, her voice carrying the professional authority I'd once resented, "I should inform you that this conversation is being recorded as part of an ongoing investigation into financial irregularities and potential criminal sabotage. "

His face crumpled. "Easton, please. It's not what you think."

"Then what is it?" I asked, sliding another document across the desk—a spreadsheet highlighting the vendor payments Harlow had identified. "Because it looks like systematic embezzlement followed by deliberate sabotage to cover your tracks."

Desperation rolled off him in waves. "I was going to pay it back. All of it. I just needed time."

"Time for what, Bryce?"

He buried his face in his hands, shoulders slumping in defeat. When he looked up, tears streaked his cheeks. "I got in over my head. Started with just a few hands of poker at the Mirage Continental. Then it was weekends in Macau. Private games with stakes I couldn't afford."