Page 87 of Theirs to Hunt
I pause. Let that land.
“I did caution you to be accurate on your reports. Guess you should’ve paid attention to my words instead of my chest.”
His smile curdles.
“There’s a suite at the Eminent Hotel billed as a vendor meeting space.”
I slide a printed invoice across the desk.
“Turns out that vendor doesn’t exist. But the suite was used. Repeatedly. By you.”
“Jesus,” he mutters, face flushing. “You have no idea what you’re poking at.”
“Then educate me,” I say sweetly.
Jeff slams a hand on the desk.
“You think you got here on merit? Please. You fucked your way into that glass tower. And now what, Grayson’s little mouthpiece wants to play Internal Affairs?”
I let the silence stretch.
He’s waiting for me to flinch. To crack.
I don’t.
I smile. Slow. Cold.
“You mean aside from the industry awards I was nominated for and the campaigns I consulted on directly? Which, by the way, I must have done pretty damn well on, considering you tried to take credit for one.”
His face darkens.
“I don’t need your confession,” I continue. “Finance already found the irregularities. I’m just here to tie the bow before legal decides how sharp they want the knife.”
Jeff’s eyes narrow.
“You’re playing a dangerous game, Reagan.”
I smile.
“No. You did. And now it’s my board.”
I snap the file shut, slide it into my bag, and stand. Jeff doesn’t move. Doesn’t even breathe. He knows what I just handed him was a loaded gun, and he’s the one standing in the crosshairs.
Behind me, he doesn’t move. Doesn’t speak.
Because he knows.
The next time someone knocks, it won’t be me.
Chapter seventy-two
Reagan, Monday 03:05 p.m.
The private elevator doors slide open with a soft chime.
I step in and freeze.
Grayson’s already inside.
