One Night With My Fiancé Ruthless Uncle

Chapter Four: The Investor

The elevator doors opened with a soft chime, and Jennifer rushed out, breathing hard. She'd run the entire way, from the free spot she'd found three blocks over, through the lobby, narrowly dodging a courier wheeling a cart of boxes, barely making it into the elevator before the doors closed on her.

She strode down the hallway, her steps quick and uneven, a single thought looping at the back of her mind. Please don't let it be as bad as it sounds. Please. This company is everything he has left.

Her phone had been buzzing nonstop since she left Carter's apartment, and she had over a dozen missed calls from Gerald.

She couldn't deal with him right now. Not the excuses he'd have ready, not the lies he was so practiced at twisting into something that almost sounded reasonable. Her father mattered more.

She turned down the corridor toward the executive offices, her heart climbing into her throat. Marion had warned her, the last time the company nearly lost a major client, that she didn't want to be the one delivering devastating news over the phone again. So she only called when it was serious.

It didn't make any difference to Jennifer. Serious was serious.

"Jennifer?"

She spun, hearing Marion's voice call out behind her. The older woman was hurrying toward her, a folder clutched to her chest, her brows knit tight with worry. "Oh, thank goodness. Is everything all right? You look—" she paused, taking in Jennifer's rumpled clothes, "—like you ran the whole way here."

Jennifer exhaled shakily, smoothing down her wrinkled blouse. She'd stopped nowhere, hadn't even changed, still dressed in yesterday's clothes because there hadn't been time to think about anything except getting here.

"My dad. You said it was bad. How bad?"

"Your father?" Marion blinked, and something in her expression softened with confusion before it clicked. "Oh, no, honey, he's fine, physically he's fine. I'm sorry if I scared you. It's the company. The Whitmore deal collapsed this morning, and without it—" she trailed off, glancing down the hall like the walls themselves might be listening.

"Without it, what?"

"Without it, we can't make payroll next month," Marion said quietly. "Possibly not the month after either."

The words hit like a slap. Jennifer's stomach dropped. "That's, that can't be right. Dad said things were tight, but not—"

"He didn't want to worry you." Marion touched her arm, gentle and apologetic. "But listen, it isn't all bad news."

Jennifer's head snapped up. "What do you mean?"

"There's someone here," Marion said, glancing over her shoulder toward the closed door of her father's office. "An investor. He reached out this morning, out of nowhere, right when we needed it most. Your father's been in with him for the last twenty minutes."

Hope, unwelcome and fragile, flickered to life in Jennifer's chest despite everything. "An investor? Someone willing to actually help?"

"That's what your father's hoping." Marion gave her a small, encouraging smile. "Go on in. He's been asking for you."

Jennifer watched her walk away, pausing to answer a question from a passing staff member before disappearing around the corner.

Her phone vibrated against her palm. Another text from Gerald.

Jennifer, please. Just talk to me. I know how it looked, but it's not what you think.

She almost laughed out loud. Not what she thought. She'd watched it happen with her own eyes, heard every filthy word out of his mouth while Sylvia knelt in front of him, and he wanted to stand on technicalities now.

Another text landed a second later.

I already booked us a trip. The one I promised you. Let me make this right. Please.

Jennifer felt something curdle low in her stomach. A trip. As if a few days somewhere warm could undo what she'd witnessed, could erase the sound of her best friend's voice asking if she was better than her, could unmake the words pathetic little charity case that were still lodged somewhere behind her ribs.

She silenced her phone and shoved it back into her bag.

Her father's future mattered more right now than whatever performance Gerald was staging for damage control.

She smoothed her hair back, straightened her spine, and pushed open the door.

Her father sat behind his desk, and the sight of him made her chest ache. He looked pale, exhausted, years older than he had looked over breakfast three days ago. His hands were folded tightly together, knuckles pale, like he was holding himself upright through sheer will alone.

"Jennifer." His face lit up the moment he saw her, relief and something like desperate hope breaking through his exhaustion. "Thank god. Come in, sweetheart. Come in."

She crossed the room and took his outstretched hand. "Dad, Marion told me. Is it really that bad?"

"It was," he admitted, his voice rough. "But I think, I really think we might have found a way through this." He glanced past her, toward the window where a man stood with his back to them, silhouetted against the skyline. "I reached out to everyone I could think of this morning, trying to find someone, anyone, willing to hear us out before the Whitmore deal collapsed for good. And by some miracle, I found someone."

Relief bloomed, quick and fragile, in Jennifer's chest.

"He's agreed to hear our full proposal," her father continued. "And if things go well, Jennifer, he could be the one who saves everything we've built."

"That's wonderful, Dad. Truly." She squeezed his hand. "So who is he?"

Her father smiled, the first real smile she'd seen from him in days, and gestured toward the man at the window.

"Jennifer," he said warmly, "I'd like you to meet the man who might just save us."

The man turned around.

Steel-grey eyes. That same cruel, knowing smile curved at the corner of his mouth, like he had been waiting the entire time for exactly this moment to arrive.

Jennifer's stomach d

ropped straight through the floor.

"You."