Page 12 of Lavish

“This is bad news, Miles,”Carlus, my second-in-command, told me the second I stepped into the hospital hallway.

I didn’t even kill the engine. Left the Porsche idling out front. I did ninety across town, ignoring every red light. I needed this not to be true.

Was this as bad as when Serena mailed back the engagement ring?

Nah. That shit sucked. She might have burned it. Selling it would’ve been colder. But no—she mailed it. Efficient. Professional. Serena to the bone.

“How bad?” I asked, already adjusting the cuff of my suit, smoothing down nothing. I made sure to keep the smile on my face. Jokes typically made things easier. Hell, when we laid off a big chunk of staff a few months back, my smiles and jokes took some of the heat off my ass.

Not the typical CEO way, but it worked for me.

I caught sight of Reggie. One of our best guys. Built like a damn fridge, now laid out like a Jenga tower someone tipped over. Cast, traction, wires.

Fuck.

Carlus rubbed the back of his neck. “He fell off the second floor. Faulty railing. He’s lucky to be alive.”

“At least now he has time to catch up on all those HR safety videos he kept skipping.” I nudged his arm.

Carlus didn’t laugh, and I cleared my throat, wiping my face. No.

Nothing about this was remotely fucking funny, but it was all I could do to not show a panicked man watching his company bleed out.

I sighed, running a hand over my face as I looked in front of me.

A lawsuit waiting to happen. Insurance was already thin. This delay? It’d cost me six figures, minimum.

And more than that, my reputation. The comeback I was staging? The redemption tour for the Whitmore name? Slipping. Again.

“Let’s not say ‘faulty railing’ out loud anymore,” I said quietly. “Until we find out what really happened. Maybe Reggie tripped. Maybe he’s clumsy as hell.”

“This ain’t a joke, Miles. This shit is serious.”

I forced a chuckle. “Tough room.”

My phone buzzed in my pocket for the third time. I ignored it. Whoever it was could wait. Probably someone else needing money, answers, miracles.

I watched Reggie breathe through the mask. Shit.

This was all Serena King.

Every time I rebuilt, Serena found a way to swing the wrecking ball with a smile on her face. Nothing says “I hate your guts” like stealing a $20 million development out from under you.

The woman knew how to grip me by the balls. Funny… How love quickly turned to hate.

I gritted my teeth, jaw ticking as I replayed the last few months in my head like a horror reel. She took the last beachfront property I’d been working on formonths.In Lush, practically nobody fucking left town or sold generational property. I’d taken the owner—a sweet, stubborn old widow—salsa dancing.Me. Salsa.

But I was willing and able to do anything to save Whitmore Ventures. We belonged in this town, just like the Kings.

And just when I thought I had it locked, Serena swooped in like the fucking angel of death she was and stole it. Probably promised the woman a goddamn statue or a yacht or some bullshit. And poof. Paper signed.

Game over.

She’d been tormenting me for months, years, really—cutting off my suppliers, spreading rumors, cherry-picking my investors like she was harvesting grapes for a goddamn King family wine.

That woman was a walking apocalypse.

She’d been relentless. Ruthless. And sure, I used to admire that about her. Hell, I used towanther. Still kind of did.