Page 156 of Down Knot Out
The knowledge still cuts deep.
As my trepidation rises, Nathaniel shifts closer, his pheromones wrapping around me. “Remember the plan. We’re not leaving without getting what we came for.”
“Expect provocations, especially from Sullivan,” Milo adds as the elevator glides upward. “He’ll be there to throw you off balance. Try not to react.”
I breathe in through my nose, out through my mouth, while the bonds with my Alphas feed me strength. “Simon doesn’t scare me anymore.”
“I can’t believe they’re hiding him from the police.” Dominic’s fingers curl into fists at his sides, the muscles in his jaw tight. “The man should be in jail for everything he’s done. And Gregory should be right there with him for hiring the monster in the first place.”
“Soon.” Milo straightens his tie in the reflective surface of the wall. “They’re keeping him around as a scapegoat, but his usefulness is wearing thin.”
The elevator slows to a stop, and my stomach lurches as the doors glide open, revealing a reception area decorated in muted grays and blues. A bland corporate paradise of wealth and power.
“This way.” Milo steps out first, leading usdown a hallway lined with framed photographs of Gregory shaking hands with politicians, judges, and CEOs in a visual reminder of his influence.
Two sets of double doors wait at the end. Milo pauses, hand on the polished brass handle. “Ready?”
I square my shoulders. “Open it.”
The conference room stretches before us, floor-to-ceiling windows offering a panoramic view of the city. Gregory sits at the far end of a massive mahogany table, fingers steepled beneath his chin. At fifty, his face shows few lines, his hair more salt than pepper, but still thick. Power radiates from him, and I’m suddenly glad Dominic insisted on a second shopping trip to up our presentation.
To his right sits Harrison Wells, the Sinclair family attorney, with a permanent frown on his lined face.
And farther down the table sits Simon Sullivan. His dirty-blond hair hangs over his eyes in a tousled way he probably thinks gives him a charming appearance. I’ve written that it does often enough in my book. But it does no more for him than the patchy goatee that can’t hide his weak chin or the cologne he wears to pretend at being an Alpha.
As we enter, his attention snaps to me, tracking every step I take.
“Chloe.” Gregory stands, his smile thin. “You’re keeping yourself…healthy.”
A flash of rage burns through me at his implied judgment. Yes, I’ve gained weight, and my dress hugs the fuller curves brought on by regular meals and pack bonds. I won’t be shamed for not starving myself.
“Gregory.” I refuse to call him father.
Harrison rises, smoothing his tie. “Please, have a seat. Can I offer anyone coffee? Water?”
“No,” Nathaniel answers for all of us. His hand brushes the small of my back as we take our seats opposite the Sinclair contingent.
Gregory waits until we’re settled before speaking again. “I appreciate your coming in person. These matters are best handled face to face, within the family.”
“We’re here to listen to your proposal,” Milo interjects. “Nothing more.”
“Of course.” Gregory slides a folder across the polished surface. “I’ve outlined the next steps for Chloe’s return to the Sinclair pack. The transition should be seamless if we move quickly.”
I don’t touch the folder. Dominic reaches for it instead, flipping it open to scan the contents.
“We’ll need to address the reputation management first,” Gregory says, adjusting the cuff of his sleeve. “A public statement explaining your temporary separation from the pack. We’ve drafted something appropriate.”
Simon shifts in his seat, his lips curving into a smirk. “We can say you were in rehab. People will understand.”
The calm mask I’ve worn since entering almost cracks. Under my skin, anger bubbles hot and dangerous. Of all the lies they could have come up with…
Gregory ignores him, focusing on me. “The estate reassignment will take time, but we’ve already begun the process. The Fairchild property can be transferred into your name once the paperwork is finalized.”
“And the formal rejection of the Santaros courtship proposal?” Milo prompts, his pen poised over his notepad.
“A delicate matter, but manageable.” Gregory gives a dismissive wave. “We’ll cite incompatibility due to conflicting family obligations. Your acceptance of the arranged match will smooth over any ruffled feathers.”
My fingers curl into my palms, nails digging into skin. I’d worn a scarf to hide my matingMarks, willing to let Gregory talk himself into a corner.
