Page 3 of Billion Dollar Mistake

“This is one way to conduct a meeting,” I mutter to myself as I step onto the obnoxiously large white yacht. Don’t get me wrong, I own one too, but the difference with me is, I’m not showing off what I have to potential business associates. Even thinking about it makes me want to spin right around and walk off this yacht. But I can’t. Business is business, no matter how much I dislike the person. And right now, I’m dreading meeting Bentley Spencer.

Walking across timber floors, I follow the sound of the latest pop music. I can hear a lot of people, and I swallow hard as I get closer to the loud wails and laughter. I do my best to simmer the annoyance bubbling beneath the surface of my skin.

I stride toward the crowd, and I can't help but notice the alcohol.

Fuck, I need a drink.

How did Bentley become this successful?

He probably gets everyone drunk and then makes them sign important papers.

My hands are firmly planted in my pockets as I weave through the scantily clad crowd. Seems Bentley failed to tell me it’s a pool party. Women are in bikinis and men in shorts and tees; whereas I’m in my suit, which is usually what I wear to a meeting. Now I’m feeling out of place and I fucking hate it. Hate that I’m the only one dressed differently. I wouldn’t have worn a bathing suit, but I could’ve been in a nice pair of shorts and a shirt. I still need people to take me seriously, but I would’ve blended in better.

I narrow my gaze as I look for Bentley. It takes me two seconds to figure out who he is. The guy has a big fat disgusting cigar sitting on the edge of his lip and one arm draped around two women. One on either side of him. I want to make this quick. I need to get the fuck out of here and get back home. I avoid parties at all costs. I’ve never been into them or big group gatherings, unless it's for events or fundraisers. This time I was forced to show up because it’s urgent and Bentley has been out of the country.

I don’t care for the ass kissing that happens in these parties. I’ve managed to conquer just about everything I’ve set out to do, and I did it by myself, so the validation doesn’t matter to me. I enjoy having my own company and setting my own goals. That’s a major difference between Bentley and me. I don’t need people to make me feel good about myself. I like myself. Scratch that. I love myself and my life. I work hard for it.

As I get closer to the two women in bikinis, more of Bentley's outfit comes into view. Caramel chino shorts with a white shirt unbuttoned halfway. We definitely don’t present ourselves the same way. I remove a hand from my pocket and swipe it down the sides of my lips before taking a drink from a nearby waitress. She seems to be the only woman on this yacht who is completely dressed and sober.

“Thanks,” I mumble and take a big sip of the rum. I enjoy the warm sensation it fills me with. At least the liquor is expensive; I'll give him that.

A touch on my suited arm has my gaze flicking sideways. It’s a brunette woman with brown eyes wearing the skimpiest yellow bikini and holding a half-drunk mojito. She has had so much plastic surgery that she looks unnatural. She’s pretty, I'm just not interested. When I’m in work mode, nothing can distract me. My eyes are on the prize and discussing the medical speculums proposal for my hospitals is the priority today.

“Hi,” she purrs. “I see you’ve got a drink and you’re ready for a good time.”

“Sorry, I’m here for business. I was headed somewhere else,” I reply firmly.

“Are you sure I can’t change your mind into having a drink with me?” She flutters her lashes in a desperate beg.

“I’m sure. I hope you have a good night.” I pull my arm out of her grasp, and she pops out her bottom lip. It does nothing for me. I shake my head and walk off.

I grip the glass tighter as I continue to my destination, only a few steps away. Suddenly, I come to an abrupt stop. “Bentley Spencer?”

His eyes slowly move to me, and his face scrunches up before it softens when he meets my stare.

“Mr. Lincoln?”

I give him a curt nod. “Mr. Spencer. Would you mind if we find a private place to chat? Wasn’t exactly expecting an audience,” I demand. I don’t care if he thinks it’s rude. This is rude. I didn’t ask for a party. I hate going out. I’m pissed off and feel like I was tricked into coming here today. When Bentley called it was quick because he was about to board a flight home. He requested I join him on his yacht at seven with no other information.

“Are you—” His words cease immediately.

The flat stare I’m giving him must be exactly the right expression. He peels his arms off the girls and kisses each of their temples before telling them he’ll be right back.

I swallow the bile coming up from the repulsion of knowing he will end up fucking these women tonight. I feel sorry for these girls. Honestly, I’m against fucking multiple women for the sake of it. With that, I pivot, looking for somewhere more suitable for a business discussion.

“I have an office downstairs,” he slurs. I’m thankful he read my mind, but I have to bite my tongue and not comment on his drunken state as well as remind myself it’s not my business.

As long as he can agree to one tiny business thing, I’m out of here—I check the time on my Rolex—in hopefully no more than ten minutes.

“Follow me,” he suggests.

Once we reach the downstairs level, he opens a door that reveals a small office with dark wooden bookshelves and a matching desk.

Simple and small. But better than doing this upstairs.

“Take a—”

I sit down and cross my legs before he has a chance to finish his sentence.

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