Page 75 of Forbidden Grumpy Boss

I exhale slowly, already feeling the pull of alcohol numbing the edges of my frustration. “Yeah, I could use a drink. This,” I motion vaguely at the chaos unfolding around us, “is a fucking mess.”

Before we can make our escape, my phone buzzes. I glance at the screen and see Kane Caldwell’s name flashing. I answer, motioning to Cassian to hold on a second. “Kane, if you’re calling about this shitstorm, I already heard from your father.”

“I’m calling because I’m close to the studio,” he replies—a British accent more noticeable the longer he stays in London. “Where are you?”

“You’re in the States?”

“Yup. Tamara has an exhibition, and I had to be there for her.”

I nod like he can see me. “Where are you?” I ask again.

“Eighth Street.”

I look around at the madness. “Up for a drink?”

“I’ve spent the better part of the day staring at abstract art. I’d kill for a drink.”

“Great. You’ll see my car soon.”

Cassian raises an eyebrow, silently asking if we’re still on for that drink. I nod, signaling that I’ll grab Kane first, then we’ll all go together. I’ve got business to discuss with Kane Caldwell—though with how things are going, I’m not sure there’ll be any business left to discuss soon.

When I find Kane, he’s leaning against a sleek black car, his dark hair impeccably combed, and his sharp suit making him look like he’s about to attend a board meeting. He’s got the kind of face that could sell anything, from software to sympathy. Not that he needs to sell me on anything. We’ve been friends for a while now.

“Kane.” I shake his hand, and he gives me one of those bright smiles that I’m sure makes sealing deals easier.

“Silas,” he says smoothly. “I hear there’s a bit of a . . . disturbance.”

“That’s one word for it,” I mutter. “This is—”

“Cassian Sterling.” He stretches a hand and smirks.

Kane takes it. “Kane Caldwell. You an actor?”

“Nah, he has the pretty face, but he’s just not shallow enough to be one,” I tease.

“What the man said.” Cassian shrugs.

Cassian falls in beside us as we make our way to the lounge he mentioned earlier. It’s a dimly lit joint tucked away from the chaos, where the air smells like whiskey and regret, and no one gives a damn who you are, which is just how I like it.

We settle into a booth, and a waitress—blonde, petite, with eyes that have seen too much—brings us drinks without a word. She knows the kind of men who walk into places like this. She knows we’re here to drown something.

Cassian takes a long sip of his whiskey before breaking the silence. “So, what are you going to do about the protest?” he asks, casually, like we’re discussing the weather.

I swirl my glass, watching the amber liquid catch the light. “If I had a magic bullet for this, I wouldn’t be sitting here.” I look around. “I think it’s somehow worse because I didn’t do this shit.”

Kane chuckles, though there’s no humor in it. “You don’t need to convince us, Silas. We know you didn’t groom Leah. The problem is public perception.”

“And public perception,” Cassian adds, leaning back, “is a bitch.”

No argument there.

I glance between them. My company’s stocks are tanking, the movie is on hold, and the deal I’ve been working on with Kane’s father, Henry, is slipping through my fingers because of this scandal. Leah and I . . . we started out fake, sure. But somewhere along the line, it got real.

And now the world thinks I’m a predator.

Kane takes a measured sip of his drink, his expression unreadable. “I didn’t just come to New York for Tamara’s exhibition, by the way.”

I raise an eyebrow, waiting.

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