Page 81 of Masks and Mishaps

“Yes, sir.”

A moment later, Claudia Villatoro joins the conference line, and Warner greets her with a cheerful, “Claudia, it’s a pleasure to meet again. How are you today?”

“Fine,” she answers, and her sigh projects through the conference room; she’s far from fine.

Warner’s eyebrow rises. “You have Dalton Cavendish and Essie…”

“Romero,” Dalton fills in, but his millisecond-smirk tells me he prefers the sound of Essie Cavendish.

“And this is a fifteen-minute check-in call,” Warner goes on. “Brief, but we can get a lot done.”

Another sigh. “And I have to fly to Geneva to handle my father’s mistress, so...”

“Dalton,” Warner murmurs, “take it away, son.”

Dalton sits quietly, glancing between Warner and the phone in the middle of the table before he inhales audibly. “I’ve gone over your legacy portfolio, and I have to say the performance has been stellar,” he begins before clenching his jaw like it’s physically painful. “What do you think about it?”

“Legacy. You’re endorsing holdings once selected by a man who wrote a million-dollar IOU on his mistress’s butt and took a picture, and now she’s claiming it’s binding,” Claudia responds. “Tell me if I got that right.”

“Yes…” Dalton confirms, glancing at Warner, who nods. “While I know a fresher approach—”

“A fresher approach is what you promised me, Harvard.”

Warner clears his throat. “Rest assured, there are new avenues here. Bernardo was invested in some early-in startups, but the prospect of foreign capital is compelling at the moment.”

He’s wrong—or he’s lying.

“No.” Claudia’s voice rises with a crackle through the speaker. “I combed through the financials myselfandwith the estate lawyer. It’s abundantly clear my father was heavily invested in foreign capital, and for you to gaslight me when I could tank your bank is insulting, Warner Hannington.”

The room is silent. Dalton clears his throat and glances at Warner, who bites down so hard that his cheeks are practically throbbing.

“Claudia,” Dalton begins, but Warner lifts a hand to stop him. “Wait,” he warns.

Irritated, Dalton faces me. His eyes lock on mine, speckled brown and focused, and he ticks his chin.

My eyebrows rise, and Dalton nods again.

Part of me can’t believe what he’s tacitly suggesting. After all, he’s banking on the model I builtreallydelivering. But another part knows nothing is off the table with Dalton. This would be straight out of the Dalton Cavendish playbook: Ask for forgiveness, not permission.

…And I do like to play, especially when Dalton’s unwavering stare urges me—the same stare that connects with mine when I come around his cock.

“Claudia, as a happy medium, I can maximize your forex investments using an algorithmic model, which should free up capital,” I spill out in a breathless effort to say my piece before Warner cuts me off.

“I’m listening,” Claudia responds, right as Warner clears his throat.

“I built an algorithm,” I state, focusing on the phone to avoid looking at Warner.

“Which is in its early stages,” he caveats.

“Is it done?” Claudia asks me in Spanish, ignoring him.

“It is,” I confirm in Spanish. “You’re underperforming in forex—always have been. The bank gets the upside of you investing in something as volatile as currency, but my algorithm automatically sells at a risk threshold, which lowers the commission.”

“What you’re saying is, I can invest in forex at a risk reduction, which is likely to increase gains, and I could then use the gains to invest in a different asset. Good,” Claudia says. “That’s much better.”

Warner’s expression is tight. “I’m not sure what she said, but—”

“Warner, thank you for your time,” Claudia replies, speaking English now. “Essie has given me something to consider. I’ll come back with a decision.”

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