Page 10 of False God

The ascent to the fifty-fifth floor feels like it takes an eternity even though the lift doesn’t stop once. Silver doors part to reveal a more welcoming atmosphere than the sterile lobby downstairs. There’s a waiting area with potted plants scattered throughout. Another female receptionist—older, closer to my mum’s age—is seated beneath more metal letters that spell outKensington Consolidated.

They sure do like to stamp that name all over this place.

The receptionist’s gaze lifts from the computer screen to home in on the visitor’s badge I’m wearing. “Good afternoon, Mr. Marlborough. Mr. Cotes is expecting you. His office is at the end of the hall—5523.” She gestures to the left.

“Thank you,” I tell her, impressed by the efficiency, then continue walking.

The carpeted hallway is wide, lined by large glass offices. Some doors are shut with walls frosted for privacy. Some are open with unoccupied desks and framed windows, boasting impressive views of downtown Manhattan.

This must be the executive floor. There’s no sign of any cubicles. Just sleek offices, most with a private secretary stationed outside.

Asher’s secretary is another attractive young woman. She glances up at the sound of my footsteps, tightening her grip on the chunky cardigan she’s swaddled in. Compared to outside’s temperature, it does feel like the Arctic in here.

“Mr. Marlborough, I assume?” she questions, glancing at my badge.

“Yes.” My voice shares the same consistency as gravel. I clear my throat once, wishing I had some water. Between the blasting air-conditioning and my expanding nerves, my mouth feels drier than a desert.

The secretary’s eyes widen when she hears the trace of my accent, but she doesn’t say anything else before pressing a button on her desk. “Asher, Charles Marlborough is here.”

A few seconds later, a deep voice responds. “Send him in, Indy.”

Indy offers me another polite smile, then nods toward the door.

Asher’s office isn’t constructed from the same glass I just walked past. It’s a coveted corner spot, the walls a cream-colored plaster and the dark wood door completely solid.

The brightness inside is more brilliant than I was expecting based on the office’s solid exterior. Floor-to-ceiling windows span two sides, the glass entirely unblemished. If not for the rain sliding down, it’d appear invisible. Looking out is the same vertigo as standing at the edge of a cliff.

Asher Cotes is seated behind a mahogany desk. He stands when I enter his office, smiling and buttoning his jacket before approaching with a hand outstretched. “I’m Asher Cotes. Pleasure to meet you.”

I shake his hand firmly, some anxiety draining away now that I’m here and close to getting this over with. “Charles Marlborough. Nice to meet you.”

Asher gestures toward one of the chairs facing his desk. “Have a seat.”

I sink down into the one closer to the bookcase, taking a moment to appreciate the view out the window. New York has a certain appeal, I guess.

“Can I get you anything to drink?” he asks, opening a cabinet door to reveal a shiny mini fridge. “I’ve got water or”—he glances at the bar cart by the bookcase—“scotch.”

“Water would be splendid. Thank you.”

“You got it.” Asher hands me a chilled glass bottle, takes one for himself, then returns to his chair. He leans back, entirely relaxed. “What team do you support?”

“Team?” I ask blankly.

“I know you Brits take your socc—I mean, football very seriously. Was just wondering which team you support.”

“Oh.” I relax, too, twisting the top off the water. “Aston Villa.”

Asher’s enthusiastic nod tells me he knows nothing about Premier League. “I’ll have to check out a game sometime.”

“You should,” I say, forcibly blocking out the memories I have of attending matches. Most feature my father.

He’s the reason I’m a Villan—because I believed him when he told me they were the team to support. Just like I believed him when he told me the dukedom I would one day inherit was a thriving legacy.

My fingers tighten around the handle of my briefcase before I open it. There’s a reason I put off this moment for as long as I could. Once I set securing an investor into motion, it’ll be done. I’ll be losing something I can never get back.

But if I don’t letsomethinggo, I’ll loseeverything. And I won’t be the only one.

So, I pull out the folder stuffed with packets of paper and set it on Asher’s desk. “Here’s the offer.”

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