Page 1 of Ireland

“I hope you’re ready to celebrate!” Ireland Vidal tapped her pen against her desktop and grinned at the woman on her left monitor. On the right, the music video she’d just watched was frozen on the last frame. She resisted the urge to replay it for a third time. “You’ve outdone yourselfagain!”

Alina Rurik beamed with pleasure. She was a striking woman. Her hair draped her slim shoulders in soft brown waves, framing a face boasting luminous, makeup-free skin. “I’m glad you love it, too,” she said. “I’m especially proud of this one.”

“As you should be!”

A true bohemian soul, Alina’s easygoing and drama-free nature appealed to Ireland when they’d met as students at Columbia. They’d been best friends ever since and were now a powerhouse production team. There were some things Ireland loved about her job; working with Alina was one of them.

“Thanks, Ireland.”

A text message appeared above Alina’s head, and Ireland immediately glanced at it. Only family messages appeared on her work monitors because they were always her priority.

We need to talk. Leaving the Crossfire now.

Gideon never wasted words or time, and she straightened at the sight of his name and photo. As usual, she’d kicked off her spiked, towering Rockstud heels because she worked better barefoot, but she slid her feet into them again. Gideon Cross might be her eldest brother, but that didn’t negate his standing as one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the world.

“What’s wrong?” Alina frowned. “Did I miss something?”

“You never miss anything,” Ireland reassured her. “It’s just that my brother’s driving over to see me.” Being chauffeured over, rather.

You can get a lot of work done in Manhattan traffic.

Alina’s dark eyes lit with excitement. “Well, since Christopher’s office shares a wall with yours, you must be talking about the sinfully delectable Mr. Cross.” She gave an exaggerated sigh.

Ireland shook her head. She’d spent too many of her twenty-nine years hearing about how good-looking her brother was. She got it. She saw it. Didn’t mean she wasn’t over it.

“Since Gideon happens tolivenext door to me,” she pointed out, “it’s weird for him to stop by my office. Especially” —she glanced at the time— “at three in the afternoon. And considering how rigidly he maintains his ridiculously packed schedule, taking the time instead of calling or waiting until I get home probably isn’t good.”

Even when Gideon had managed her and their mother’s shares in Vidal Records, he seldom came by the Music Row headquarters. He’d worked on Vidal matters from the top of the Crossfire Building, where he oversaw his global conglomerate, Cross Industries. In a few weeks, he’d be turning the Big4-0, and media outlets far and wide would laud what he’d accomplished in that relatively short time.

“Well, it can’t be bad.” Alina gave a dismissive wave of her hand. “He coddles you.”

“Coddles? That’s a weird word. Anyway, let me know when you’re settled at home on Monday, and I’ll come by with champagne.”

“Of course. Can’t wait to see you.” Alina blew a kiss and ended the call.

Standing, Ireland walked to her coatrack. Gideon saw her nearly every day because she lived in his penthouse’s adjacent guest apartment, but he rarely saw her at work, in her element, and she strove to make him proud. Not that he ever wasn’t. But was his pride rooted in his love for her or because she’d earned it? The metalized records framed on the walls of her office proved she had. Still, she struggled with doubts.

She grabbed the buttery black leather blazer that matched her shorts and pulled it on over her blue silk bandeau. Having an ownership stake in a recording company was a headache more than anything, but there were a few benefits. She listened to the hottest and freshest music, worked with extraordinarily talented creatives, and could take her sartorial choices to the edge and beyond.

Before she sat again, she did a quick check in the ornate oversized mirror leaning against the wall. She was the one member of her family who looked like a music exec. Her father, Christopher Vidal, Sr., preferred cardigans over blazers and quirky brass glasses. Gideon’s wife, Eva, once said he looked more like a college professor, and Ireland could see that, even though none of her professors at Columbia had dressed like her dad. Her brother, Christopher Vidal, Jr., fell somewhere in the middle. And while Gideon no longer held a stake in thecompany, he practically invented quiet luxury. Everything he wore was bespoke.

When he arrived, Gideon filled her office’s open doorway in an expertly tailored pinstriped three-piece suit, his Berluti oxfords polished to a high shine, and subtle cufflinks at his wrists. As usual, he commanded the expansive space the moment he walked into it, a tall and dominating presence with unmistakable authority who always struck awe and a little fear into her.

But she played it off, rocking back in her seat and grinning. “Hey, bro. How many people have you managed to scare the shit out of today?”

His brow arched. “Not enough, but there’s still time.”

He moved to one of the two gray velvet visitors’ chairs in front of her desk. In a choreography of deft and practiced moves, he tugged up his slacks and unbuttoned his jacket while sinking gracefully into the seat.

She’d actually seen TikTok tutorials of women dissecting how he sat so other men could learn how to up their game.

In many ways, looking at him was like looking at a masculine version of herself. They both had their mother’s aqua eyes and inky hair, although Gideon cut his glossy locks off at the collarbone while she wore hers to the hip. She marveled that he didn’t have a single strand of silver in his hair yet, although she had seen more than a few in his morning stubble the few times she’d caught him before he shaved. They had the same aquiline nose and full mouth, the same cheekbones and sculpted jaws.

It was strange how genetics worked. Gideon’s father was their mother’s first husband. Christopher shared both of Ireland’s parents, but they looked nothing alike.

“To what do I owe the immense pleasure?” She leaned forward and linked her hands on her smoked glass desktop so she didn’t fidget. “Did you piss off Eva again?” she teased,appreciating that his petite wife’s fiery temper was the one thing on earth that could make him change course. “Is Mom acting up? Want me to shoot another campaign for ECRA+?”

“None of the above. I’m here about Graham Teller,” he said with deceptive mildness while studying her with that unnervingly focused gaze.

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