Page 5 of Meet Me In The Dark (Skeptically In Love #3)

Julian

Mateo’s fist connects with my ribs just as I drop my guard to breathe.

“Jesus,” I grunt, staggering back with a hiss.

“You drop your left again, I’ll do worse,” Mateo says, not even winded. He’s sixty-eight, bald, and built like a brick wall. Moves like one, too.

“I was breathing,” I snap, wiping sweat off my forehead.

“Don’t breathe like a rookie then,” he fires back. “Again.”

We circle each other in the ring, and I let my body move on instinct.

Jab, jab, pivot, duck. Right hook.

The thwack of my glove meeting his pads is the only sound besides our feet scuffing the mat.

This is the place my parents dragged me when I was one suspension away from giving up.

I’d come home with black eyes and busted lips, fists still clenched, and angry.

Always angry. Angry at everyone and no one.

It scared the shit out of my mother, so my father called in a favor.

Mateo took one look at me—almost six feet of lean rage at only fifteen while wearing a stolen hoodie—and said, “Get in the ring.”

Nineteen years later and four inches taller, I’m still here three times a week without fail.

I don’t come here because I have to.

I come because I need to.

“Again,” Mateo barks, and I react before I think.

Ten minutes later, I’m gasping for air, with my ribs sore and my shirt sticking to my back as I step out of the ring and yank off my gloves. Mateo tosses me a water bottle with all the grace of a man who once threw me out of the building for disrespecting his floors.

“You’re slowing down,” he says.

I take a long drink of water. “We both know that’s bullshit. You’re just getting old.”

He grunts and wanders back toward his office while I head for the locker room and strip off my soaked shirt. The water pressure in the showers is still shit, but it gets the job done. I scrub fast, pull on a fresh suit, and run a hand through my damp hair.

On my way out, I loop through the gym, nodding to a few familiar faces already on the floor. It’s barely seven a.m., but I like having the place to myself before it fills up.

The drive into the city is smooth for once, which is good, because I’m surviving on three hours of sleep.

My brain hasn’t shut off since I left the womb, and lately, it’s been worse.

Too many moving parts. Too many decisions.

I’m building a goddamn empire, but it means nothing if I can’t get five uninterrupted hours without thinking about every potential crack in the foundation.

By the time I pull into the underground garage at Blackwood & Calloway Holdings, the ache in my ribs has settled in, and I’m already mapping out today’s meetings in my head.

The building looks nice—glass, steel, all the corporate polish—but it’s just a placeholder until construction begins on the new headquarters. Well, it will once everything goes according to plan and we finally choose an architect.

When I step off the elevator onto the executive floor, the energy changes. People move faster here.

I stride past the assistant desks, dodging a delivery guy holding a tray of green juices and one terrified intern who almost drops his tablet when he sees me.

I laugh to myself because between me and my business partner, Nathan, I’m the nicer one.

“Great suit,” Avery calls, ready with her usual sharp wit as she falls into step beside me.

“Great face,” I reply without missing a beat.

“Aww. You too, boss.”

Avery has been my assistant for four years. She’s intelligent, ruthless, and alarmingly organized. I’d die for her, but I’d never say it out loud.

“HR hates us,” she adds casually.

“I’m aware.”

“They sent me an email about inappropriate workplace greetings. ”

“What did you say?”

“That it was a compliment, not harassment.”

I give her a sidelong glance. “Flattery won’t get you out of staying late tonight.”

“I wasn’t trying to get out of anything. I just like your face.”

“I’m keeping you forever, you know.”

“Legally, I don’t think you can say that to an employee.”

“Try me.”

She barks a laugh as we reach my office.

“Okay, rundown,” she says, eyes scanning her tablet. “You’ve got a strategy meeting at eleven, a finance check-in at two. The CEO roundtable has been moved to tomorrow.” Her voice flattens slightly. “And Tom Kingsley wants to have dinner Friday night.”

I halt mid-step. “No.”

“No?”

“No,” I repeat. “He’s a fucking leech.”

“Yeah, I know, but are you sure? He keeps pestering. Something about wanting to ‘mend fences.’”

“I don’t know what part of ‘go screw yourself’ he didn’t understand.”

She hums and taps something into her tablet, already dismissing the request.

Kingsley. Jesus.

The guy’s been circling like a buzzard ever since the Blackwood & Calloway headquarters project went public. He tried to wine and dine us early on, but it didn’t take long for us to see the desperation behind all that smug, polished bullshit.

Turns out we were right.

His firm might still appear prestigious, but cracks are starting to show. He took over the business a decade ago. Now, the whole operation is bleeding out. He’s drowning in lawsuits, hemorrhaging cash, and trying to drag anyone down with him who’ll bite.

He visited us last quarter and attempted to pitch a miracle comeback, hoping to get us to invest. He even handed over doctored financials as if we were fools.

He claimed a new architect was joining the team, set to “revolutionize the brand”.

Said we would be stupid not to jump in now, while the opportunity was hot.

What he really wanted was a bailout—a big, shiny corporate life raft.

Besides, that’s not what we do. Not anymore.

In the beginning, Nathan and I played the game—quick stocks, short-term flips, trying to look like we belonged in a room full of men who wouldn’t have pissed on us five years earlier. But once we made it, we swore we wouldn’t become them.

Now we invest in neighborhoods that others try to bulldoze.

Neighborhoods like the ones we grew up in.

We rebuild. We play the long game, with slow returns and soul behind them.

Sure, we still take struggling billionaire companies, strip them down, restructure, and sell them for parts, but we don’t do it blindly, and we sure as hell don’t rescue cowards like Kingsley who pretend their ship isn’t sinking while rats are clawing through the hull.

Avery shrugs. “Wouldn’t it be better to meet him and just make it clear in person?”

“I’ve already made it clear.”

“ Clearer .”

I shoot her a look. “No. I have plans on Friday.”

Her finger freezes mid-scroll. “You don’t have any work engagements.”

“It’s not work. ”

She blinks as if she just spotted me walking barefoot through the lobby. “You have non-work plans?”

“Don’t look so shocked. I do occasionally leave the building.”

“This has something to do with that envelope on your desk last week, doesn’t it?”

The corner of my mouth lifts. “You’re a nosy little thing, aren’t you?”

“I’m observant. There’s a difference.”

“Not in your case.”

“Oh, come on. Tell me.”

“No.”

“Why not?”

“Because I don’t want to.”

“Tell me,” she demands, sulking.

“No.”

“You love that word. Was it a wedding invite?” she asks, eyes narrowing. “It didn’t look like a wedding invitation.”

It was an invitation, but it wasn’t for a wedding.

In truth, it was something far less traditional and far more intriguing.

An anonymous invitation.

No sender, no signature. A name only whispered among the elite.

Julian,

Your presence has been requested.

“You’re still staring at me,” I say without looking up.

Avery adjusts her stance. “You’re seriously not going to tell me?”

“Absolutely not. ”

“You’re not going to a sex thing, are you?”

Christ, she’s annoyingly perceptive.

“Do I look like a man who needs to pay for sex?”

She doesn’t miss a beat. “You look like a man who hasn’t had it in a while. Which is very unlike you.”

“That’s slander.”

“Technically, it’s libel. And also accurate.” She smirks. “The last time you left the office for a non-work-related event, I still had a boyfriend.”

“You’re better off. He was a dick.”

“Obviously, but don’t change the subject.”

I sigh and round my desk before lowering into my chair.

“Are you done?” I ask, drumming my fingers along the wood.

“Not until you tell me where you’re going.”

I lean back in my chair. “No chance.”

She taps something on her tablet and waits. It’s the silent war of attrition we’ve played since year one. She always breaks first.

Sure enough, after a beat, she shifts her weight. “You know, I could find out what that invitation was for. Discreetly.”

She can try, but she won’t find the answers she’s looking for.

I laugh under my breath. “And ruin the mystery?”

“Since when do you like mystery?”

I don’t.

Not usually.

But this feels different.

Something about it scratches at the part of my brain I try not to acknowledge. The part that wonders why now, why me, and what exactly they think I want.

“Go torture someone else,” I say, waving her off .

“Gladly.” She turns on her heel, then stops at the door, twisting back to look at me. “Just, if you are going to some secret billionaire sex party...”

I lift a brow. “Yes?”

She gestures to my tie. “Maybe don’t wear that.”

I glance down. “What’s wrong with my tie?”

“You usually have impeccable taste.” Her shoulders lift in a shrug. “But I don’t know. I think that one offends me.”

“Duly noted.”

She winks. “Try not to get blackmailed.”

“Try not to get fired.”

“Not possible. You’d fall apart without me.”

The door clicks shut behind her.

I lean back in my chair and exhale, eyes drifting back to the envelope still tucked in my drawer. My thumb taps against the armrest, heartbeat just a little too loud for comfort.

This is either a very good idea or a very bad one.

Then again, so is everything that’s ever worked out for me.