Page 27 of Silver Fox's Christmas Scandal
The files slipped from my numb fingers, scattering across the floor. As I knelt to gather them, panic clawed at my throat. Everything I'd feared was already beginning. The whispers, the speculation, the judgment. And we'd barely begun.
How long before those whispers reached the wrong ears? Before someone with real power decided I was a liability?
I thought about my small apartment, my careful savings, my dreams of motherhood that depended on this job.
The elevator chimed, and I scrambled to my feet, clutching the files against my chest. Lucian emerged and his eyes narrowed as he took in my flushed face and shaking hands.
"Miss Wynn. Is everything all right?"
"Yes, sir. Just organizing some documents." The lie tasted bitter on my tongue.
His gray eyes studied me for a long moment, and I wondered if he could see the fear written across my features.
"Alright, I'll see you this evening," he said, lingering for a few more seconds with a dark expression on his face before walking away.
I hated that my anxiety got triggered so quickly. I took a minute to try to collect myself and I picked up the rest of the scattered papers.
I would have to tell him tonight what I overheard, and both of us would have to be way more professional and careful at work.
I couldn't afford to lose this job because people spread rumors about me.
8
LUCIAN
The snow fell harder now, thick flakes coating the windows of my penthouse as I stared out at the Chicago skyline.
January was leaving with a vengeance, turning the city into a frozen wasteland of gray and white. I held a tumbler of whiskey, letting the burn ground me before the conversation I dreaded having.
My ex-wife had requested this meeting through a carefully worded text that left no room for refusal. The children were involved, which meant I'd have to listen to whatever manipulation she'd crafted this time.
But they were important to me and I'd spent enough time making my work more important than real-life issues. I had to give my ex-wife face time and try to settle this the mature way before she escalated it into some sort of drama that would only make things worse.
I finished my drink and grabbed my coat, heading downstairs to the waiting car. The Signature Room occupied the ninety-fifth floor of the John Hancock Building.
I typically reserved it for business dinners, but when Viktoria barked I heeled—it was the nature of our relationship.
I arrived first, claiming a corner table with a view of the city lights.
The hostess knew me by name and to keep my table private and my glass full.
Viktoria appeared twenty minutes later, drawing stares as she crossed the room.
At forty-five, she remained stunning—blonde hair swept into an elegant chignon, her figure maintained through personal trainers and careful dieting.
She had always been as beautiful as dawn over the ocean, but beauty is sometimes skin deep and what lurked under that exterior was caustic and toxic.
"Lucian." She settled into the chair across from me while going to great lengths to draw every bit of attention she could.
Every movement she made was exaggerated and dramatic, from the way she positioned her purse on the table next to her so everyone could see the Chanel buckle, to the way she undid her coat and fanned it out so her Casper suit was visible and the thick perfume that was no doubt just as pricey wafted out toward any and all who dared near her.
"You look well." The lie came easily. She looked tired beneath the makeup, her smile too bright, the meticulous attention to fashion too forced. I felt sorry for her, yet I understood at the same time.
In my previous life with her, it had all been like this for both of us. I went through some sort of middle-age metamorphosis for years, however, and none of those things meant anything to me anymore. But she was still stuck in the same mindset as the day we graduated college.
"Flattery won't make this conversation easier." She signaled the waitress for wine, then folded her hands on the table. "The children are worried."
"About?"
