Page 37 of Witch You Would

“That would be amazing!” Tone it down, Gil. “What are you—or your donor—thinking?”

“We’re prepared to hand you a check for fifty thousand dollars tonight.”

Did he hear me inhale and forget to let it out? If not, my shocked face probably said it all.

“That’s extremely generous,” I said. “Thank you so, so much.”

“Of course. Anything for the children.” Mr. Jones shifted, the candle’s flame reflected in his glasses. “There is one small

proviso, but I don’t think you’ll find it particularly objectionable.”

For fifty grand, I’d strip off my tux and dance on the table. “Sure, what is it?”

“Given that the show’s prize is double what we’re offering, I’m sure you understand that we want to ensure our donation goes

to a truly needy cause.”

“Right.” What was he saying?

“If you were to win the competition, you wouldn’t need us.”

Was he implying . . . “So this only happens if my team loses?”

Jones didn’t answer. He just smiled.

This was a bribe. He was trying to bribe me to lose on purpose. Holy shit.

“Who did you say was your donor?” I asked.

“Anonymous. But if you’re amenable, I’ll hand over this little slip of paper here.” He pulled a check out of an inner pocket

of his suit jacket and showed it to me. It was made out to the charity, and the amount was what he’d promised.

“If I say I need to think about it?”

“I’m afraid this is a onetime offer. Now or never.” He held the check over the candle’s flame, high enough for it to be safe,

but the threat was clear.

“What if I take that now and win the next round?”

“We’ll stop funds. The charity might even be accused of fraud, which would be quite the scandal.”

Fucking fucker. “And if I say no?”

“I walk away, and you won’t hear from me again.” Jones pushed his glasses up his nose. “I cannot promise there won’t be other

repercussions. Quiet gossip reaching influential ears. Perhaps even bad press. Donors can be fickle.”

Blackmail, too, huh? Great. Part of me was scared, but the rest was pissed off. A lot of people busted their asses for the

charity, and this douchebag sinvergüenza wanted to wreck it over a TV show competition?

Not to mention that Penelope was counting on me. I’d come into this figuring I wouldn’t get far, wouldn’t win the grand prize,

would take the minimum and be glad. Penelope, though? All that money and a year to cast whatever she wanted? It would change

her life.

We still might lose in the next round, but if I took this deal, it would be a guarantee. Clearly someone thought we were a threat, or they wouldn’t be trying to bribe me. Probably.

Definite money now, or possible money later? Sell out or stay in? Why did it feel like I was back in the casino, trying to

decide whether to put chips down on red or black?

What would Grandpa Fred tell me to do?

“Do you honestly think you have a chance to win?” Jones asked, letting the check drift closer to the candle. “Be reasonable,

Mr. Presto. Let’s not make this difficult.”

Was he reading my mind? Nah. But he did make my choice easier for me.

“I’ll take it,” I said, holding out my hand.

Mr. Jones passed me the check. “A pleasure doing business with you.”

“Oh, we’re not.” I smiled. “I just wanted to have the check as evidence in case you thought blackmailing me or the charity

later would be a good plan.”

His smug expression vanished. “Is that so?”

“I mean, I could take this straight to Isaac and see what happens. He’s already threatened us with lawyers about thirty times,

so I have a feeling he’d freak out and go after you with one of the enchanted ice sculptures.”

“It would be your word against mine.”

“Does he know you? Are you on the guest list? Will he be able to figure out who your anonymous donor is with a truly basic

amount of research? These are all questions you could have asked yourself before you threatened me, but apparently you decided

I wasn’t smart enough to think it through.”

Jones stood. “I believe we’re finished here.”

“I believe we are. One more thing, though.”

“What?”

“Smile, asshole.”

Jones turned just in time for the roaming event photographer to snap a picture of us together, with me holding up the check.

Busted. I wished I could bottle the salty-ass look on his face to enjoy it again later. Without another word, he disappeared

into the crowd.

“Hey,” I said to the photog. “If you pass me a copy of that pic, I’ll give you a free sub to my channel.”

I didn’t wait for him to say yes; I had a shithead to catch. Jones scooted around the edges of the party toward the exit.

He didn’t stop to talk to anyone, but he paused in the doorway, turned, and made a throat-cutting gesture. I followed the

direction he was looking.

Unless I was wrong, he’d aimed his signal at a small group by a moving ice sculpture of a ballet dancer going through an elaborate

routine. I only recognized three people there: Penelope, Charlotte, and... Felicia, who was facing the door.

It could have been a coincidence. After everything else that had happened, I doubted it.