Page 138 of Jett

She emailed me this morning. She doesn’t want any of that. She called it “a sad day,” and begged me to respect her wishes and not make a spectacle. She’s probably going to struggle to say goodbye, just like I will. But unlike her, I’m not ready to let this end. I'm a risk taker. A man who likes surprises.

I head into back-to-back meetings, hating that I can’t even be around her on this milestone day.

It’s late afternoon by the time I see her. She’s with the other PAs, saying goodbye with hugs and promises to keep in touch. I watch from a distance as they gush over her, their voices raising with affection.

Then they leave, and Cari stands there, alone, surrounded by the little gifts and tokens of appreciation piled on her desk. She looks sad. I have deliberately kept out of her way these past few days, and I can already see the hurt in her eyes. She thinks I've reverted to being cold and keeping her at bay. That I didn't care about her, on her last day.

Nothing could be further from the truth. I walk up to her desk. There are flowers and chocolate boxes and little gifts on her desk from work colleagues.

Her eyes meet mine with hesitation. “Thank you for respecting my wishes,” she says softly, gesturing to the lack of ceremony.

I nod. “Can you come into my office, please?”

“Jett … no. I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She looks smaller somehow, her shoulders tense, her gaze distant. She looks like she’s already decided this is the last time she’ll see me. I want to tell her everything—how hard it’s been to keep my distance these past few days. How much I wanted to pull her into my arms and tell her she’s not going anywhere.

But I don’t. Instead, I stay rooted to the spot, my fists shoved into my pockets to keep them from reaching for her. “Just come with me.”

She follows me into my office, looking unsure as she hovers near the door, clutching her bag, clearly ready to bolt. I’m so tempted to put my arms around her. I'm desperate to reel her close to my chest. I so badly need to feel her lips on mine. I dream about her being back in my life, my bed.

But I manage to keep my distance, putting my desk between us to keep me in check.

“I need you to do something for me,” I say, keeping my voice even.

Her brow furrows. “Jett—”

“Trust me, Cari. Please. Be here. At this time.” I hand her a slip of paper. Her fingers brush mine as she takes it, and the heat lingers, shooting straight to my heart.

“What is this?” Her tone is edged with suspicion.

“You’ll know soon enough. Seven-thirty. Don’t back down. Walk in with your head held high.”

Her eyes search mine, as if trying to decipher some hidden message. For a moment, I think she’s going to refuse. But she nods, tucking the paper into her bag.

“Okay,” she says quietly.

Chapter 51

JETT

We file into my father’s penthouse apartment as usual. Me, Dex, and Zach. We always make it a point to come here together when it’sthatnight.

Our father lives in the most luxurious skyscraper in Midtown Manhattan. And he has the penthouse, of course. Its floor-to-ceiling windows offer unparalleled views of Central Park and the New York skyline. But despite its opulence and grandeur, its whiff of exclusivity and jaw-dropping wealth, this is a cold place, devoid of warmth and human touches.

Cari's apartment feels more cozy and homey than this place ever will. But this signals power and wealth, and my father's imagined place at the top of the world.

I breathe freely only when I leave here.

We head straight for the dining room. Paul Knight sits at the head of the large and polished rectangular dining table, the Don, God. A puppet master presiding over his empire, while the other sons sit on one side of the table. He’s showing them a photo of a woman. I already know who she is. Christ, the man didn’t waste any time.

“Just on time,” my father says, beckoning us in.

The half-Knights nod and murmur greetings, and me and the boys do the same, sitting down directly opposite them.

“Isn’t she stunning?” Paul asks. We look at the photo. This woman is indeed stunning, with dark, cascading waves of hair and eyes that could set fire to a room. The kind of woman men like my father deemsuitable, but more so because she comes from a filthy rich family. She will be useful to my father’s calculated way of thinking.

“Absolutely beautiful.” Paul’s voice drips with snakish charm.

Dex smirks, leaning back in his chair. “Looks photoshopped.”

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