Page 7

“Three hundred grand?” I repeat the words—a devastating blow to my ego.

Trey Spencer rubs his temples, his blond hair a victim of his frustration.

He looks years older than his early thirties.

“It was an honest mistake. That model had flaws in it and I should’ve caught it. I reviewed your work.”

Acid sloshes in my gut.

This is a gut punch.

The last three weeks of my undercover mission at Fleur have gone well.

While I’ve fetched too many caramel macchiatos and Cobb salads to count, my performance evaluations have been glowing.

I was put on more complicated tasks—the last being an investment analysis of our current holdings and how to reallocate our portfolio.

My coworkers gave me the nickname Deliminator—a nerdy pun on the words denominator and eliminator—because of the shrewdness of my calculations.

It’s good to be trusted.

The future where Ethan Anderson, the CFO of the largest entertainment and hospitality company in the world, and someone known for his brilliance and precision, seems possible.

But now, because of a mistake I made in the new forecasting model I introduced last week—a model I was so sure of, I even told Dreamer an early promotion is in the bag—I just cost Dad and the budget more than a quarter million.

It barely registers in our net worth, but it’s the fact I got too confident.

Hubris I didn’t earn .

Trey must have read my thoughts because he adds, “Look, Delaney, yes, you fucked up. But stuff like this happens. You’re early in your career and sharp. Your recommendations were on point. This is a setback, so learn from it and don’t let it get to you.”

“Fuck. I should’ve been more careful. Will this impact you?”

A shadow clouds his eyes.

He’s probably wondering how much shit he’s in and whether it’ll go up the ladder and make its way to Maxwell, who’s the Chief Operating Officer or as we like to call him, CEO in training, or my dad, the CEO.

I need to come clean—it’s my shit, and Trey shouldn’t take the fall for it.

“You let me worry about it. I share the responsibility of the error.”

“Look, I can talk to Mr. Anders—”

“No.” Trey forces out a smile.

“I like you, kid. I’ve been here for seven years and have earned enough mileage to cash some out. You just arrived. Don’t let this be a CLM.”

Career limiting move.

Shame slinks through me.

I should tell him nothing will happen to me because I have something more valuable than mileage points—I own the entire airline.

But I don’t want to debut Ethan Anderson as a failure.

How will I ever gain the respect of my colleagues and my family if I out myself now?

“Take the afternoon off. Go to a bar, get a drink, de-stress. Come back tomorrow and we’ll strategize.” Trey waves me off.

Guilt eats at me, but I nod.

“I’m sorry again.” Stopping at the door, I turn around.

“And Trey?”

My mentor looks up and arches a quizzical brow.

“Thanks. Not everyone has a boss looking out for them.”

Trey chuckles.

“You’re good. Get out of here, Delaney.”

Rubbing the back of my neck, I make my way to The Orchid, a few blocks away .

“Mr. Anderson, good afternoon. Your brothers have arrived already.” The concierge nods after I step through the double doors of the fifty-plus-stories building.

“I’ll have them send up your Pintzer.”

My preferred drink as soon as I enter the premises.

The gold standard, as always—all our members receive the same treatment.

The Orchid is the pinnacle of our company, a place where all dreams can come true—whether it be scrumptious food from world-renowned restaurants to bespoke concierge services, and kink rooms and sex clubs.

After thanking him, I enter the private elevators and press the floor to the gentlemen’s club.

Rolling out my shoulders, I examine my appearance in the mirrored walls.

Dark brown hair, a little shaggy but presentable.

Dark circles around my eyes betray my lack of sleep.

A bespoke blue suit—not the highest quality because an entry-level analyst wouldn’t be able to afford that.

I force a smile, hoping my brothers won’t see through my mask.

The elevator doors glide open.

Adjusting the lapels of my suit, I hold my head high and stride through the spacious lounge toward the private room reserved for our family.

The club is half-full, and I recognized a few folks who regularly grace the cover of Fortune magazine.

Old money is a cesspool of underachievers—half the people in the room didn’t earn their place here.

They’re here because they were born with the right last name.

Without knocking, I enter our room.

Maxwell nods at me, his phone against his ear.

He looks every inch the future CEO of the company in his wide stance and imposing demeanor.

The man reeks of the confidence I hope to have someday.

“Cancel the contract. Fleur doesn’t do business with The Association. I don’t give a fuck how big this contract is.” He turns to face the floor-to-ceiling windows as he continues his conversation.

I cock my brow. The Association?

Dad had looped me in once I graduated—several years ago, a few senators attempted to pressure him into letting The Association use The Orchid for their business .

The Rose floors, where sexual appetites were satisfied, could provide a prime venue for laundering money, capturing illegal footage for leverage, and other shady business.

“ Never give up your morals for the sake of power. Do the right thing with our privilege. Give back to society instead.”

Dad declined and the next thing I knew, Elias Kent was installed to man those floors.

Ironically, the crime boss made sure there was no funny business happening within these walls.

I’m damn lucky to be born in this household.

Scanning the room, I see Ryland sitting in his blue armchair, his brows furrowed as he types on his laptop.

Rex is nowhere to be seen.

As everyone is working, I park myself at the dining table and tug my tie loose.

I can’t fucking breathe.

An attendant hands me my beer, and I take a sip before pulling out the journal.

A distraction—that’s what I need.

A pressed sprig of lavender falls out of the pages, and I smile.

She likes to enclose little keepsakes in our journal of things she came across earlier in the week—flowers, photos of sunsets or food, whatever fits her fancy.

Dear Keeper of My Days,

Is it strange to call you my best friend after only two months of letters?

I can’t explain this, but you understand me.

The real me with all the squishiness and dark thoughts, the dreamer and the worrier.

You’ve never seen me before and it doesn’t matter how I look or dress, who my family is, so ironically, I can bare my soul with you.

I know I never texted you.

It’s a big step to be texting each other, even if the messages will be routed through an anonymous number.

To be honest, it feels like I’ll be cheating on D, my boyfriend, even if there’s nothing going on between you and me.

But that level of intimacy…

I want to have things sorted out with D before deciding if we should text.

Am I overthinking?

My mouth runs dry at her words as the room comes back into focus.

For the past few seconds, like all the moments before when I read her letters, I’ve been transported elsewhere—into an intimate space where I can almost hear her say those words to me.

My pulse thumps like a jackrabbit has taken residence in my veins.

I never realized how our connection has grown through these entries until she pointed it out now.

And now, I wonder how I could’ve been so blind to my evolving emotions to this friend…

this confidant.

Gripping the journal tightly, I continue reading.

In all honesty, and I’ve been the most truthful to you, I scanned the code and almost signed up.

But something held me back, and I knew it was D.

The other day, he came to my place to hang out, but I had a headache and took a nap.

When I woke up, I overheard him talking on his phone in the living room and he said things like “Leverage,” “I’ll get an intro soon,” and “Money isn’t a concern.” I asked him about it and he only shrugged and said I must’ve been dreaming.

He kissed me and sat me down to review college acceptances.

My gut clenched when I read the words.

He kissed her—it’s like her observation about our intimacy has awakened something inside me.

I don’t like her boyfriend based on what she has told me in the past, but this is the first time I’ve felt a visceral reaction.

Or perhaps the first time I’ve noticed.

Fuck. What’s happening to me?

She’s a friend .

Someone you trust with your secret thoughts—things you tell no one else, including your family.

Shit.

He’s been sweeter these days.

I wonder if the last few months of strangeness have been a fluke.

What would you do, Keeper?

We’ve been dating for a while now and maybe deep down, I’m afraid if I break up with him, I’ll be alone again?

You raised a good question a few weeks ago, and I thought about it.

For my victory picnic in the courtyard, I want to take the person I love to share the experience with me.

We’d have those fancy little sandwiches—smoked salmon, but no capers because that stuff is gross, fig jam and cheese, cucumber and egg salad.

I thought about bringing lasagna—but that’d be too messy.

I’d want the lavender scones from Estelle’s.

And a batch of their honey lavender iced tea—a hug in a drink.

I’d bring my books—romance, Greek mythology (what’s your favorite Greek myth, by the way?

Eros and Psyche’s love story is my fav), gothic mysteries, my scrapbook and journal (yes, I have another one at home), and just doodle my day away with the person I love.

How’s that for specific plans?

Satisfied?

I hope you find genuine love, even if you don’t believe in it.

Perhaps I haven’t experienced the heart-wrenching twist of loving someone.

But I’ve seen it. My parents, as flighty as they are, truly love each other.

But their love is volatile—a tsunami drowning everyone in the vicinity.

I want what they have, minus the wreckage.

I hope to find it someday and I wish for the same for you.

And my what-if questions—you called me a dreamer, right?

Thinking about what-ifs reminds me of the endless possibilities in life.

I should create a list of my dreams—go big or go home.

What if your what-ifs come true?

Ha, you didn’t expect that, did you?

Here’s my random what-if for the week: What if there’s no more bacon in the world?

What will you eat for breakfast?

Your confidant,

Dreamer and Believer

P.S.

Clue: Another name for this journal.

I know, I’m lazy with this one, but ballet practice and school have been kicking my ass, so I haven’t had time to come up with something more clever.

P.P.S. In case you need a reminder, I really admire your drive.

You just started a new job and are kicking ass at it, but even if you weren’t, you’ll be great eventually.

Do you know why?

Have you read Angela Duckworth’s Grit ?

She mentions that perseverance and effort are what it takes to succeed in life.

And effort counts twice.

You have this in spades.

So I know, if you trip and fall, you’ll just dust your knees off and get back up.

Plus, we’re often the toughest critics of ourselves.

You’ll succeed someday.

I know it and believe it.

I smile at her words, a soothing balm to the ragged wound in my ego.

I was right. Reading her words made me feel better.

Her trust and faith is an addictive drug, and I want more of it.

“Ethan? Earth to Ethan, what are you staring at?” Rex snatches the journal from me.

“Fucker. Give that back, C!” I jump out of my seat and throw a right hook at my brother without thinking.

Luckily, he dodges out of the way just in time.

The violent impulse shocks me.

All I know is when he grabbed the book I had to make sure no one else read it because the words belong only to me and Dreamer .

Rex’s eyes widen. I snatch the journal from him, my face aflame.

He holds his hands up in mock surrender.

“Damn. What do you have there, state secrets?”

“Just notes from work, jackass. You know I hate being disturbed when I’m working.” I roll my eyes.

Rex arches his brow before tossing his suit jacket near the coatrack.

He plops down on a sofa and stretches his legs.

“I don’t know how we’re related, workaholic.”

“I don’t know how you’re the older one,” I mutter under my breath.

“I heard that. And thank you.”

“It’s on purpose. It’s not a compliment.”

He smirks and waggles his brows.

The Anderson charmer, or Mr. C, because our parents alphabetized our middle names with Maxwell’s being Angus, Ryland with Benedict, to Lana with Eloise—the ladies love him and he loves them back.

“I’m not in a rush to carry the weight on my shoulders like the folks over there.” Rex juts his thumb toward Maxwell, who just ended his call.

“What are you two fighting over now?” Ryland grumbles and snaps his laptop shut.

Maxwell chuckles and takes a seat.

“Rex and his womanizing ways.” I stuff the journal back into my bag.

Maxwell eyes the motion and arches his brow.

I shake my head. The man misses nothing, but he isn’t nosy, unlike Rex.

“I heard there was a hiccup with the investments, Ethan.”

A muscle tics in my jaw and I fist my hands on my lap.

Of course, the loss has made its way to him already.

“It’s my fault, not Trey’s. An oversight with the model.”

“Can we course correct?” Ryland steeples his hands.

Their attention is heavy—an unwanted spotlight.

“I’m meeting with Trey tomorrow to discuss. We might not make it all back, but hopefully we can break even.” I chug down my beer to do something with my hands .

“Don’t be too aggressive—learning the ropes takes time, Ethan. There’s no rush.” Maxwell’s eyes soften into something akin to sympathy.

“You have time.” He smiles encouragingly, the way an older brother dotes on his younger siblings.

I don’t want sympathy.

Or gentleness. I want pride and recognition from his eyes.

“I’ll fix this.”

As the words slip out of my mouth, I realize I want to do it not only for my brothers, but also for Dreamer.

Because somewhere out there, she believes in me, not because I’m an Anderson, not because I’m related to her.

She believes in me for me and me alone.