Rebekah’s POV
“Three months, Rebekah. I’ve already spoken to the caterers and the board...we’re moving the gala up to coincide with the wedding,” Michael said, his voice bright with a triumph that made my skin crawl. He was leaning against the marble wet bar, swizzling a glass of bourbon. “It’s the perfect PR move. Survival, strength, and a merger all in one night. The Grants won’t know what hit them.”
I stood in the center of the plush cream carpet, my hands still shoved deep into my coat pockets. I didn’t look at him. I couldn't. My eyes were glued to Derek, who stood like a silent sentinel by the heavy mahogany doors. He hadn’t moved an inch since we entered the suite. He didn't look like a man who had just saved my life; he looked like a statue Michael had rented to decorate the room
