Page 8 of The Placeholder
Liana grins. “And then Felix told him—quote—‘If you contact my sister again without her explicit invitation, I will personally ensure you regret it in ways your tiny brain cannot begin to comprehend.’ Then he set Jared down so gently it was almost scarier than if he’d dropped him.”
“That explains why the texts stopped two days ago.”
“Your brother is terrifying when he wants to be,” Betsy says with admiration. Then she leans forward, a sly smile curving her lips. “Speaking of Felix… I couldn’t help but notice how you were looking at him at my engagement party.”
Liana chokes on her wine. “What? I wasn’t looking at him in any particular way.”
“Oh, honey,” Betsy drawls, exchanging a knowingglance with Liana, “you most certainly were. Every time Felix walked into the room, you practically got whiplash.”
Liana quickly deflects. “He’s Della’s brother. I’ve known him since I was eighteen.”
“Exactly,” I tap my nails against my coffee cup. “You know exactly how good he looks in a suit. And your eyes nearly popped out of their sockets when he lifted Jared off the ground. They appeared laser-focused on my brother’s biceps. I haven’t forgotten how much you fawned over him in college.”
Liana’s cheeks bloom like time-lapse photography of a sunset, from bashful peach to full-blown fire engine. “I am not discussing this,” she declares, lunging for her water glass with the desperation of someone whose tongue has discovered Carolina Reaper pepper. “Felix is simply a good friend who happens to possess the genetic lottery ticket of hotness. My eyeballs have functioning rods and cones—they’re just doing their evolutionary job! I’d stare at any man whose biceps require their own zip code. Besides, I love being single. My vibrator doesn’t leave wet towels on the bathroom floor."
“Who said anything about a relationship?” Betsy asks with the faux innocence of a cat sitting beside a shattered vase. “I was just shocked your embarrassing crush hasn’t evaporated like my willpower around carbs.”
I laugh under my breath and give Liana a sympathetic look. “My dear brother is a six-foot-six finance wizard with arms like California redwoods and the jawline of a Disney prince. You’ve been eyeing him like he’s the last chocolate lava cake on earth since our freshman year.”
She buries her face in her hands but can’t stop the smiletugging at her lips like an impatient child. “You two are impossible—like trying to fold fitted sheets.”
"Why didn’t you ever tell him anything?” Betsy asks.
“She did,” I interrupt, dropping the bomb with surgical precision.
Liana’s eyes grow so wide they threaten to escape her face entirely. “How do you possibly know that?” she whispers, her voice a horrified squeak.
“Because I overheard you spilling your guts at my 19th birthday party. You were three hard ciders past reasonable judgment, twirling your hair like a helicopter propeller and practically throwing yourself at him with the subtlety of a confetti cannon.”
She huffs and shakes her head, her curls bouncing with indignation. “Well, thanks for excavating that archaeological disaster.”
“Oh my God, did he turn you down?” Betsy leans forward so eagerly she nearly baptizes herself in wine, positioning herself like a gossip gargoyle.
Liana rolls her eyes and takes a gulp from her fresh martini, leaving a perfect crimson lip print on the glass. “That magnificent jerk turned me down flatter than a week-old seltzer and said—and I quote—‘You’re practically a fetus.’ I was eighteen and he was twenty-six. That’s only eight years—not a geological era! Anyway, I’ve avoided the subject like it’s a public restroom in Times Square, and fortunately, he’s been gentleman enough to play along. Now, change this subject or I’ll start discussing the virtues of Jared and Devon!”
Without any further motivation, Betsy and I pipe down.
CHAPTER 5
AXEL
Night has fallen hard over the city, a black weight pressing down as Alek and I stride through puddles that reflect neon and headlights from the rain-slicked streets. We’ve loosened our ties but kept our suit jackets on despite the late hour, moving with the confidence of men who’ve just closed an eight-figure deal. We approach Roman’s Bistro, our victory ground since day one of the firm. Brick walls weathered by decades stand sentinel under brass fixtures that have witnessed a thousand deals. The white neon sign spits electric light across Alek’s face, turning his sharp features warrior-fierce as he braces one shoulder against the ancient oak door and jerks his chin for me to go ahead.
“Twelve million, Ax. Twelve. Million.” Alek’s voice carries the same excitement it did when we closed the deal earlier today. “And all we have to do is babysit some tech executives while they parade around Europe.”
The bar hits us like a fortress of masculinity—dark mahogany gleaming under strategically placed lights. Thewalls, lined with vintage photos, have witnessed decades of deals and downfalls. I claim our booth, back to the wall, eyes sweeping the room for threats before settling. Force of habit from too many combat zones.
“Damn good contract,” I agree, catching our usual server, Mick’s eye with a single raised finger. His weathered face cracks into recognition as he reaches for our bottle—Macallan 18, kept under lock and key for warriors returning victorious.
Alek plants his forearms on the table, knuckles still raw from his morning workout. “There’s more. Got a call about another client. The kind of money that buys silence.”
Mick approaches and sets down tumblers heavy enough to crack skulls. The whiskey gleams like melted gold in the glass. I take a measured pull, letting the liquid fire coat my throat before answering.
I knock back another swig. “Who’s the client?”
“Marcus Thorne.”
The name hits me like a sucker punch. My jaw locks as I slam my glass down, amber liquid sloshing up the crystal sides, threatening to spill onto my scarred knuckles.
