Page 11 of False God

The corners of Asher’s eyes crinkle as he reaches for the folder. “You’re not going to ask me about the Jets?”

I give him a blank look.

He chuckles. “Never mind.”

My knee wants to bounce anxiously as Asher flips through the papers. I don’t have my own copy, but I don’t need one. I’ve spent the past several weeks poring over the documents with barristers, discussing which properties and terms to offer. I have the contents memorized.

My father was one of the best-connected men in England. There was a long list of people I could have called for advice or assistance on divesting shares. But a large percentage of those are shrewd businessmen who would have had their own interests. And the others … the center of my father’s inner circle? It would have killed him all over again, having his weaknesses exposed to the men he’d respected most.

I shouldn’t care. I’m trying not to care. He’s gone, and he’ll never know what choices I’ve made with the limited options he left me.

I can’t shake the compulsion to consider his opinion though. Habit, partially. Pride is another piece. And also … I was raised to be the eighth Duke of Manchester. Now, Iamthe eighth Duke of Manchester. Just because it happened in a different way than I’d ever anticipated doesn’t mean I didn’t know it was coming one day. Doesn’t make the dukedom any less my responsibility.

Asher’s nod is approving as he closes the folder. “Impressive pitch.”

I nod back, keeping my posture relaxed. It’s in my interest for Asher to consider me confident, not desperate. Experienced, not unsure. Hopefully, my father’s proclivity for selling stretched truths as facts was genetic.

And itisa good pitch. I’m offering Kensington Consolidated forty-nine percent of two five-star hotels near Covent Garden and in Belgravia. The historic buildings are worth tens of millions of pounds each, never mind the sterling reputation of the luxury businesses that were established over a century ago. I’m asking for a fair price and offering an opportunity that’s rarer than once in a generation.

Dozens of companies would beg for this offer. But I came here first because Kensington Consolidated is known as being the best. They have deep pockets and endless resources and a shockingly low number of lawsuits for its size. If Ihaveto sell—which I do—they’re the best option.

Asher sits up straight, setting the folder on his desk. “I’ll bring this to the board. Be in touch as soon as possible.”

“Sounds good.” My tone is as straightforward as his.

I’m grateful to Asher for taking this meeting. My surname carries a lot of weight back home. Not so much here. And I’m relieved it wasn’t an outright rejection. But also disappointed.

I knew an immediate answer was unlikely. Asher might be high up in the company, but he’s not at the top. Of course there’s a process that has to take place.

I’m so tired of waiting though. Each day, the weight I’m carrying feels heavier.

I follow Asher out of his office, into the hallway that’s just as empty as when I arrived. Asher’s secretary is talking quietly on the phone, but otherwise, it’s so silent that I think I can hear the rain pattering outside.

“Holiday weekend upcoming,” Asher explains, noticing my perusal. “Lots of folks already took off.”

I nod, my high opinion of Asher improving even more. I don’t know if he had other meetings today or if ours was the only one, but I’m impressed he was willing to come in on a day whenhe knew most of his colleagues—hissubordinates—would be on vacation.

“Hopefully, you’ll have a chance to get away too,” I tell him.

Asher grins. “Headed to Nantucket with the family tomorrow. How about you? Any plans for the Fourth?” His smile holds for a couple of seconds, then dims. Twists into a grimace. “It’s just occurring to me that might be a holiday you don’t celebrate.”

My chuckle is genuine. Which has been rare for the past fourteen months. “I’ll be in the Hamptons.”

“Oh, really? You should—” Asher cuts himself off, his attention behind me. A broad grin stretches across his face. “No way!”

I turn to see a brunette, middle-aged woman walking down the hallway toward us. She’s statuesque and stunning, her dark hair pulled back in a neat chignon and her elegant dress impeccably tailored. I’m certain we’ve never met before, but something about her appearance strikes me as vaguely familiar.

When she reaches us, Asher picks her up and twirls her around in one of the more undignified displays I’ve witnessed in a professional setting.

“What are you doing here?” he exclaims. “Crew said you guys wouldn’t arrive until tomorrow!”

The woman smirks, smoothing the wrinkles Asher added to her dress. “He follows my schedule.”

Asher nods like that response makes total sense. Then glances at me. “Charles, this is Scarlett. Scarlett, this is Charles.” He puffs his chest up with theatrical significance. “We were just discussing some important business.”

“Really?” Scarlett drawls. Her voice has the teasing, exaggerated lilt of an older sibling talking to a younger one.

“Really,” Asher confirms, still grinning widely.

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