Page 32 of Twisted Truths

Her steps falter, but she keeps coming toward me. “Not sure how to take that.” She picks up her plate and sits to the right of me.

I clear my throat. “I just mean that you look a lot younger like that.” I gesture with my steak knife to her outfit and her hair.

The red locks are still wet, and she’s pulled them into a messy bun at the top of her head. She doesn’t normally wear a lot of makeup, but she’s completely fresh-faced at the moment, and she has on a tank top and a pair of cotton shorts I think might actually be a pajama set.

It’s all just a reminder of the deep chasm separating us—our ten-year age gap, the difference in our bank accounts, and her innocence compared to how soiled I am.

“Still not sure how to take it.” She removes the silver dome and sets it to the side, looks at her plate, then over at me. “How did you know how I like my steak?”

Do I tell her that I asked Marcel to find out from the cook?

No.

“Lucky guess.” I shrug and cut another piece of steak for myself.

She looks as though she doesn’t know what to make of that and takes the first cut into her steak. I watch as she brings the fork to her lips and places the piece of meat between her plump lips, then I look away before I get any ideas.

When she’s done swallowing, she says, “You know I could say the same thing about you.”

My forehead creases. “What are you talking about?”

She looks me up and down. “I’ve never seen you dressed like that. It’s weird.”

I can’t help but chuckle. “Weird?”

“You’re always the portrait of a billionaire—in your bespoke suits, hair perfectly coiffed, put together in a way not many can manage.”

I can’t help but preen at her description of me. “So, which do you prefer?” There’s a small amount of flirtation in my voice.

“I don’t have a preference. You’re my boss,” she says as she cuts another piece of steak. But she won’t look at me.

“Say it enough, and maybe you’ll believe it.”

Her head whips in my direction, and her eyes narrow the slightest amount. “Don’t worry. I realize your T-shirt probably costs more than all the clothes I came to the manor with.”

She might be correct, but I see her comment for what it is—a way to erect a wall between us.

If I were smart, I’d let her. But I still can’t seem to help myself from wanting more from her. Always more.

Chapter

Fourteen

ARIANA

The thing I realize within five minutes of our first meeting is that the Obsidian Voss I know from Midnight Manor is not the same Obsidian Voss who shows up to meetings.

Here, he’s the most charming man in the room and has everyone eating out of his hand. There’s zero trace of the predator I’ve had glimpses of. It’s not that he doesn’t seem powerful or that he’s a pushover. It’s that he knows exactly how to make people feel comfortable in his presence—in order to manipulate them into getting what he wants, all while making them think it’s their idea.

By the third meeting, I wonder why he’s not the CEO of Voss Enterprises, but then it makes sense. He’d be chained to a desk if that were the case, and the best use of his talents is out in the field, being the face of Voss Enterprises.

Each of our meetings is a chance for him to advocate for something to regulators on behalf of Voss Enterprises. Forget a team of lobbyists, Obsidian Voss is a one-man wrecking ball, destroying any arguments the other side has almost immediately, whether it be through his charm or through his intimate knowledge of the law.

If he didn’t irritate me so much with his snide remarks and his hot and cold temperament, I might find it impressive.

The official meeting has broken up, and Obsidian is doing what he does with a bunch of senators on one of the committees he spoke with today. I’m on the other side of the room, speaking to one of their aides.

Before we arrived at the first meeting today, Obsidian made it clear that my job is to be seen and not heard and to take notes. I was to agree with anything he said, and if he got stuck in a conversation with the same person for longer than five minutes before or after a meeting, I was to interrupt and feign that something urgent needed his attention. And if I see him fix his left cuff link, that’s the signal that he wants to be pulled out of the conversation, regardless of how long he’s been talking to the person.

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