Total pages in book: 134
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 129676 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 648(@200wpm)___ 519(@250wpm)___ 432(@300wpm)
Lastly, I suspected Tate belittled me because I was biracial. Being half-Jamaican, half white-Cuban, I was no stranger to racism. Whether it was on the tennis court or out of it, in posh events, I’d always noticed the pseudo-subtle way some people looked at me. The backhanded remarks.
And him being racist seemed like a logical personality trait for the soulless ghoul. But I couldn’t find another instance where Tate was degrading or dismissive toward a person of color.
On the contrary, for all its faults (and there were too many to count), GS Properties was constantly praised in business magazines and other outlets for being inclusive, diverse, and cutting-edge.
Two of the handful of people Tate respected—the CFO of the company, Will, and the head of litigation, Tiffany—were Black.
No, it seemed as though Tate’s problem was specifically with me.
When Tate was done, I shouldered off my coat and began sorting through the files. I already knew I wasn’t going to find the blasted certificate. I remembered putting it on his desk after the courier delivered it.
My boss slinked into his office, probably to sip his baby-blood smoothie.
I tried to ignore the ticking clock above my head as I slipped documents back into their original files, this time sealing them with paper clips for the next occasion Tate decided to chaotically rip through the office like a storm.
At five thirty in the morning, I finished shoving the last file back into the cabinet without a single sign of the Fonseca Islands certificate of incorporation.
I closed the cupboard with a soft click.
“Gia,” a deep voice husked behind me.
I jumped in surprise, swiveling around. Tate popped his face from his office.
“Lucifer,” I answered.
“I found the certificate of incorporation.” He held up the paper, his smirk unforgivingly taunting. “Silly girl. It was under my Starbucks cup all along.”
Three months later
I clasped my fingers around the familiar curve of my shell bracelet, drawing a deep breath.
Beyond the door looming in front of me was the party of the century, hosted by the arsehole of the millennium, a.k.a. my boss.
I heard the music, the chatter, the laughter, the chime of delicate champagne glasses kissing.
Smoothing a hand down my lavender chiffon ball gown, I swallowed. The last thing I wanted to do was party.
And technically speaking, I was not invited to this one. Only planned it to its finest detail, hired the catering, and sent out the invitations.
But I had to speak to Tate urgently.
I needed a massive favor.
A bead of sweat slid down my spine.
Snap out of it, Gia. This is for Mum. Pull yourself together.
I threw my shoulders back, tipped my chin up, punched in the code, and pushed the door open.
The seven-bedroom flat on Billionaires’ Row had a mouthwatering view of Central Park. The first floor consisted of the main kitchen, living room, three large bedrooms, and four bathrooms.
Upon purchasing it last year, Tate gutted the modern, futuristic design and vaguely insisted I redecorated it as I saw fit. It was unlike him not to hire the world’s most expensive and prestigious interior design firm, so at the time, I had chalked it up to him wanting to make my workload more impossible and my life more difficult.
But it backfired on him. Designing his flat had been a refuge for me, a way to decompress from my hectic day job and personal woes. I had chosen bold, textured baroque wallpapers and commissioned the artist who painted the murals.
I handpicked the antique pieces, Renaissance paintings, and Gothic furniture myself. Gold-framed mirrors and cathedral-like ceilings. Medieval crown moldings and elaborate trimmings.
It was spectacular, harsh, and dark.
It screamed Tatum Blackthorn and all he stood for.
The flat was featured in the most luxurious design magazines on the planet, hailed as thought-provoking, shocking, and exquisite.
Tate never thanked me for the project.
Taking the curved stairway up to the second floor, I felt my heart beating out of my chest.
On to the third and last floor. The grand ballroom and highest point in Manhattan’s residential properties, bracketed by floor-to-ceiling windows, with a bird’s-eye view of the entire city.
The room was jam-packed with couples swirling on the dance floor. Bright pastel-colored ball gowns swished the floors, and waiters plaited the throngs of people, balancing tall champagne glasses and canapés.
I spotted Cal and Row dancing together, every inch of the loved-up fairy tale they were. Next to them were Rhyland and Dylan, another couple of friends I adored.
Rhy spun her around, and Dylan tossed her head back and laughed without a care in the world. He dipped his head and kissed her neck. It made me stop and smile.
Dylan was a dear friend. Come to think of it, despite Tate being Satan’s spawn, his mates were absolute gems, and I felt deeply connected to all of them.
But it wasn’t them I was looking for tonight. It was him.