Questions start flying faster, and that’s when, without warning, even to myself, I turn to her, lean down to her forehead, and kiss her. Long and deliberate, the kind designed to make headlines.The press loses their minds, and as I pull away, she’s startled, eyes wide. I give her the Play along loo
CHASEThe bourbon burns just enough to take the edge off, but not enough to stop the irritation starting to bubble up in my chest.I check my watch for the fifth time. Six thirty. It’s half an hour past when we were supposed to leave.“What the hell is she doing in there?” I swirl the amber liquid i
He gives me a look—like he knows exactly what I’m doing—and lets it slide. He picks up the iPad on the table and opens a file."Victoria St. James," he begins, tapping through photos and profiles, “is an art curator from Milan. Educated in Florence. World traveler. Polyglot. Mysterious. Elegant. Pri
IVYNew York. Love her and hate her at the same time. I press my forehead lightly against the cool glass window, eyes drinking in the skyline from the highest floors of the Stelux building.The city beneath me roars, alive with the pulse of horns, flashing lights, and millions of broken dreams.From
I step into the open-plan living area and my shoes echo against the floors, too loud in a space that should be alive with her energy.“Ivy?” I call out. No answer.I move through the space, sweeping my gaze over the plush throw on the couch, and head straight to her room.Her door is open, so I peek
CHASEThe boardroom stinks of cologne, sweat, and expensive failure. I am seated at the head of the table, one hand curled under my chin, the other spread flat on the cold glass surface.There’s a man at the far end of the room clicking through slides—graphs, projections, timelines—but his voice is