Page 113 of Jett

Florida.

I’ve been here three days, and I’m already at the end of my patience. The meetings have been relentless—we’ve spent hours hashing out solutions, back-to-back with lawyers and executives. I’m running on fumes, fueled by caffeine and frustration, and I’ve barely had a moment to breathe.

Leaving Bermuda was the last thing I wanted to do. Walking away from Brooke from Cari, from paradise itself to deal with this mess? It grates on me.

Friday night, and I’m finally stepping out to grab something to eat. A quick sandwich will have to do before we dive into yet another session. My phone buzzes, and I glance at the screen.

Update me ASAP.

It’s a message from my father. Short, clipped, and predictable.

“Will do when I’m out of here, old man,” I mutter, slipping my phone back into my pocket, but not answering his text.

***

The weekend blurs into a haze of arguments, spreadsheets, and strategy sessions. By Sunday night, the pieces have finally fallen into place. The acquisition is saved, the regulators placated, and the deal secured.

I sit in my hotel room, leaning back in the chair, staring at the city lights through the window. My phone rings, and of course it’s my father.

“It’s all sorted,” I say as soon as I pick up. “You don’t need to worry about a thing.”

“I knew you’d figure it out.” My father’s voice is as detached as ever. “When are you heading back?”

“Tomorrow morning, after the final meeting.”

“Good. But don’t forget—there’s a golf game at Seminole tomorrow afternoon. You need to be there.”

“I’m not going,” I reply flatly.

“It’s networking. Business. Visibility. You should be there.”

My jaw tightens. “I need to get back to my daughter.”

His laugh is sharp, cutting. “Since when are you in such a rush to see Brooke?”

“That’s not fair,” I snap, trying to keep my voice even. “The whole reason I brought her to Bermuda was to spend time with her.”

“Is that so? Are we talking about Brooke or someone else?”

The insinuation lands like a slap, and my stomach tightens.

“My daughter. Your granddaughter,” I grind out.

There’s a pause, then his voice drops into that calculated tone I’ve despised my entire life. “Have you given any thought to my proposal?”

“What proposal?”

“The email about the Brazilian heiress.”

My grip tightens on the phone. “I was going to get back to you about that once I return. I need time to think.”

“Good,” he says smoothly. “She’s perfect for you. Wealthy, connected, and smart. You might not love her, and she might not love you—but that’s fine. You can have an open marriage, as long as no one finds out.”

The words slam into me, leaving me momentarily speechless.

“What?” I can’t believe what I’m hearing.

“You can still have your fun, Jett.” His tone is as casual as if he’s discussing stock options. “Mistresses, lovers—whatever you want. Just keep it quiet. It’s how these things are done.”

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