Page 73 of Devil's Tulip

“Don’t tell me you think you’re in love with her.Michael.”

“And what if I am?” I challenge, sick of this conversation. So what if I fucking am?

Silence.

Then, finally, “I’ll be there tomorrow evening for dinner. Make sure the others get the invitation.” He ends the call before I can tell him tomorrow night is too soon.

I rub my temple. I suppose coming here is the only concession he’s going to give us.

How the hell am I going to tell Gianna we’re hosting a dinner party tomorrow night?

Sighing, I pull up the group chat with my brothers and shoot them a text.

Dinner at my place tomorrow night.

Be nice to my wife or get kicked out of my house.

I drop my phone into my pocket, ignoring the immediate vibrations from new notifications. Probably some snarky responses to my very real threat.

Walking back inside, I head towards the bedroom to check on Gianna.

Maybe if I catch her right as she’s waking up, she won’t immediately remember she’s pissed at me and won’t be too angry at the idea of hosting dinner tomorrow night.

Fuck, I can’t believe I’m scared of the reaction of a slip of a woman.

Is this what Maximo has been going through? Hell.

I run a hand through my hair as I open the bedroom door—only to find the bed is empty.

Frowning, I go inside. “Gianna?”

No answer.

I make my way to the ensuite, but it’s empty as well.

Where the fuck is she?

Pulling out my phone, I swipe past the six notifications from the group chat and tap into the house’s security feed. A quick scan of the footage, and…nothing.

A muscle ticks in my jaw as I return to the office. It’s about time I link the tracker I added on her necklace to my phone so I can see her whereabouts at all times.

But when I open the office door?—

There she is.

Sitting at my desk, frowning cutely at my computer screen.

“What the hell are you doing?” The words come out harsher than I mean them, but I don’t know how else to react seeing her all up in my stuff.

She leans back in the chair, slowly dragging her gaze over me from head to toe before tilting her head. “You’re Michael Hart, CEO of HartSphere?”

I watch her for a moment. “Yes.”

“You started your company when you were just eighteen with the launch of that video game.” Her tone is unreadable as she studies me. Then, after a beat, she mutters, “Impressive.”

Something in my chest tightens at the acknowledgment, and my shoulders pull back instinctively, a flicker of pride settling there.

“What are you doing here?” I ask as she gets to her feet and walks towards me. But instead of answering, she only shrugs andmoves past me like I don’t exist. I catch her elbow. “How are you? Are you feeling hungover?”

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