The dim lights flickered lazily across the marble walls of my favorite club—the same one where Rex Montague sat with me just last week, offering a partnership with his damned publication company. I could still remember his smug grin, that too-polished voice pretending to be civil when we both knew our families would rather set fire to each other’s legacies than share a single peso.
I turned that offer down with a polite smile and a glass of scotch. Politely, of course. I didn’t tell Leland about it. No use stirring the pot with stories my old man would rant about over dinner for weeks. Instead, tonight was meant for something else—unwinding, maybe, and talking through this chaotic decision I made that’s been haunting my thoughts since this morning.
Maurice Miranda.
God, that woman has b
