Page 95 of Their Arrangement
“C’mon, sweetheart. Don’t make us beg.”
The door clicked shut behind me.
Silence settled.
Not the polite kind. Not professional.
The kind of silence that wrapped around your ankles like rope and tugged.
The four of them were already seated.
Barron at the head of the table, suit pristine, phone face-down beside his leather portfolio. Wolfe across from him, black shirt rolled at the sleeves, fingers steepled as if prayer was ever something he practiced. Loyal, quiet and focused, tapping something into a notepad. Royal—of course—was leaned back, legs spread, arm resting along the chair beside him.
My chair.
He didn’t look at me. Not at first. Just kept swirling something in his glass like this was a social call.
“We were starting to think you’d gotten lost,” he said without looking up.
“I was sent to the wrong room,” I lied.
Wolfe’s eyes flicked to mine. Sharp. Fast.
He didn’t say a word.
Barron didn’t motion for me to sit.
But Royal did.
A slow tap of two fingers against the seat beside him.
“Come on, sweetheart. Don’t leave me all alone over here.”
I walked.
Not quickly.
Not carefully.
Just… deliberately.
My heels clicked once, twice, three times before I reached the chair and sat.
Royal’s arm didn’t move. It stayed on the back of my chair, just close enough that when I settled in, his fingers brushed my shoulder.
Barely a touch.
But enough to set my skin on fire.
Loyal slid a folder across the table toward me.
“Barron wants you to review this while we go over the Gotham acquisition. See what stands out.”
I nodded, opening it.
Spreadsheets. Share allocations. Something about conflict zones and rare stone procurement.
I blinked and tried to focus. But the room was too warm.
