Chapter Four
1108 Words
Catalina woke up to silence, a sense of déjà vu washing over her.
Sunlight poured through the suite’s stained-glass mirror, painting the ceiling in bright colors. The scenes from the previous night streaked through her mind.
Julian brushing her hair back. His rich baritone laying out the ultimatum. “Ninety days.”
In the dark, the 3-month challenge sounded easy, but remorse came with sunlight. She sat up, dragging the duvet with her. If she was going to win this partnership, she had to get back to New York. Her phone stared back from the nightstand, silent. She’d shut it off last night because she couldn’t handle the barrage of messages just yet.
A knock at the door paused her exit from the bathroom.
“Room service,” A voice called, muffled through the door.
Catalina frowned. She hadn’t ordered anything.
Wrapping her hair in a damp towel, she opened the door. A woman in a crisp uniform rolled in a small mountain of breakfast - coffee, pastries, fruit, enough food for a banquet.
“Compliments of Mr. Richards,” she said, smiling.
Michael. Of course.
Catalina poured herself coffee after the woman left, inhaling the scent before taking that first rejuvenating sip.
She was dressed when the second knock came. ‘‘It’s open.’’
Michael Richards strode in. Silver hair slicked back, the worried dad look in his eyes pinned her in front of the mirror.
“You look like hell,” he said.
“Good Morning to you, too.”
He dropped into an armchair by the window. “Did you get any sleep?”
“Not really, nightmares, tossing around. The usual.” She shrugged and took the other chair. “Thank you for sending breakfast.”
“You are welcome.” He waved at the food. “Now eat. We need your brain at its best.”
She grabbed a croissant, teeth sinking into the buttery goodness. “What’s the plan for today?”
Michael pulled out his tablet. “We are going back to New York. My people have been poking around DeLuca Holdings’ books for the past three years. Since you talked about taking Marcus apart, figured we'd better have ammo.”
“And?”
“Marcus is hemorrhaging money.” Michael slid the tablet to her. “Bad bets, gambling, keeping his mistress happy. I will have the investigator meet us once we drop in.”
She scanned the overview on the screen; most of these transactions were made when Marcus was still with her, and yet nothing on the screen looked familiar.
“He’s cooking the books,” she said.
“Among other disastrous investments.” Michael took his tablet back. “DeLuca Holdings will collapse sooner or later; we just need the shareholders to fall into our hands.”
“Ninety days,” Catalina said, almost to herself.
“Rinaldi’s deadline?”
She nodded, dropping her croissant. “Yeah. Julian wants proof I’ll cut ties with Marcus. That I am not in love with my ex-husband.”
Michael watched her with a crinkle in his eyes. “Julian? Since when are you two first-name friends?”
A flush crept up her neck as she remembered the heat of Julian’s scent when he brushed her hair back. Clearing her throat, she avoided Michael's gaze. ‘‘We are not friends. I…, It would be weird calling him Mr Rinaldi when he is not here.’’
“If you say so,” he said, the ghost of a smile still on his lips.
“Drop. Let’s start with the shareholders.”
For the next hour, they laid out targets. Gerald Whitmore, eight percent. David Park, seven percent. Margaret Okoye, 9 percent.
At midday, Catalina’s phone buzzed.
She’d switched it back on without meaning to.
Bernard’s name lit up the screen.
“Take it,” Michael said, getting up. “I’ll stretch my legs and have our flights set up for tomorrow.”
Catalina answered. “Hey.”
“Hey, yourself.” Bernard sounded worried. “Saw the Milan pics. You never told me you knew Julian Rinaldi.”
She groaned, making a mental note to check out these pictures herself and issue a statement before anyone else misunderstands it. ‘‘I don’t know him, like they are implying. He happened to be there, and I got a half partnership, for now.” She said the last part in her head.
“Uh-huh.” Doubt colored Bernard’s voice, and he let out a low sigh. “Why are you coming back to NYC?”
“Tomorrow.” Her voice relaxed. “Marcus is arranging it now.”
“Tali, be careful. Michael told me enough about your plans. I know you don’t want to hear it, but you can’t stoop to Marcus’s level. I don’t want you to get hurt because of this.”
Her chest tightened. She heard the devotion in his voice and blamed her heart for not being able to love this man.
“I will be fine,” she said. “If anything goes south, I will run to you and raid your fridge.”
His chuckle came with a low sigh. “I'd better stock up on ice cream then. Bye.”
“Take care of yourself.”
She put the phone down just as Michael came back, coffee in hand.
“Bernard checking in?”
“Something like that.”
He poured her a cup. “Flights all set for 10 am.”
“What would I do without you?”
‘‘Sofia handles you enough.’’
Her phone buzzed again.
Unknown number.
She almost ignored it. Probably a reporter fishing for something about last night’s photos. But curiosity, they say, killed the cat.
She opened the text and felt like someone had punched her in the gut.
“I’m watching you, piggy. You’ll never win.”
Attached was a photo of her and Julian on the balcony, his face mere inches from hers.
Marcus.
She dropped the phone. Michael caught it before it hit the floor. He glanced at the screen, his mouth pulling tight.
“Son of a b***h,” he said.
Her hands shook, the now familiar red haze blocking out everything in sight.
Marcus was obviously not going to play fair, so why should she?
“Block the number,” Michael said. “I’ll get security on it.”
But Catalina was already reaching for her laptop, fingers flying. She pulled up DeLuca’s shareholder registry, started cross-referencing, and built out a spreadsheet of targets and deadlines.
“What are you doing?” Michael asked.
She looked up and smiled.
“Winning,”
- Writer
