Page 3 of King of Greed

“I-I’m sorry, sir.” The analyst presenting the slides paled to the point of translucence. “My assistant— ”

“I don’t give a damn about your assistant.” I was being anasshole, but I didn’t have time to feel bad about it. Not when my stomach was turning and a migraine was already crawling its way behind my temple.

On. Off. On. Off.

I turned my head and focused on the charts instead. The switch in focus, combined with the clicks of the lighter, calmed me enough to think clearly again.

SEC. Tumbling stocks. What to do with our position.

I couldn’t fully shake the sense that one day, I would fuck up so royally that I’d destroy everything I had, but that day wouldn’t be today.

I knew what to do, and as I laid out my strategy for holding on to our position, I pushed every other voice out of my head—including the one telling me that I was forgetting something damn important.

CHAPTER 3

Alessandra

HE WASN’T COMING.

I sat in the living room, my skin ice cold as I watched the minutes tick by. It was past eight. We were supposed to leave for DC two hours ago, but I hadn’t seen or heard from Dominic since he left for work that morning. My calls had gone to voicemail, and I refused to check in with his office like some random acquaintance begging for a minute of the great Dominic Davenport’s time.

I was his wife, dammit. I shouldn’t have to chase him down or guess his whereabouts. Then again, it didn’t take a genius to figure out what he was doing right now.

Working.Always working. Even on our ten-year anniversary. Even after I’d stressed how important this trip was.

I finally had a good reason to cry, but no tears came. I just felt…numb. A part of me had expected him to forget or postpone, and wasn’t that the saddest part?

“Mrs. Davenport!” Our housekeeper, Camila, entered the room, her arms laden with freshly laundered linen. She’d returned from her vacation last night and had spent the day tidying up the penthouse. “I thought you already left.”

“No.” My voice sounded strange and hollow. “I don’t think I’ll be going anywhere this weekend after all.”

“Why…” She trailed off, her eagle eyes taking in the luggage next to the couch and my white-knuckled grip on my knees. Her round, matronly face softened with a mix of sympathy and pity. “Ah. In that case, I’ll make dinner for you. Moqueca. Your favorite, hmm?”

Ironically, the fish stew was what my old childhood housekeeper made me when I was heartbroken over a boy. I wasn’t hungry, but I didn’t have the energy to argue.

“Thanks, Camila.”

While she bustled off to the kitchen, I tried to sort through the chaos swirling through my brain.

Cancel all our reservations or wait? Is he simply late or is he not going on the trip at all? Do I evenwantto go on this trip now, even if he does?

Dominic and I were supposed to spend the weekend in DC, where we’d met and gotten married. I had it all planned out—dinner at our first-date restaurant, a suite at a cozy boutique hotel, no phones or work allowed. It was supposed to be a trip forus. As our relationship frayed further every day, I’d hoped it would bring us closer again. Make us fall in love the way we had a lifetime ago.

But I realized that was impossible because neither of us was the same person we used to be. Dominic wasn’t the boy who gave himself a hundred paper cuts making origami versions of my favorite flowers for my birthday, and I wasn’t the girl who floated through life with stars and dreams in her eyes.

“I don’t have the money to buy you all the flowers you deserve yet,” he said, sounding so solemn and formal I couldn’t help but smile at the contrast between his tone and the jar of colorful paper flowers in his hands. “So I made them instead.”

My breath caught in my throat. “Dom…”

There must’ve been hundreds of flowers in there. I didn’t want to think about how long it took him to make them.

“Happy birthday,amor.” His mouth lingered on mine in a long, sweet kiss. “One day, I’ll buy you a thousand real roses. I promise.”

He’d kept that promise, but he’d broken a thousand more since.

A salty trickle finally snaked its way down my cheek and shocked me out of my frozen stupor.

I stood, my breaths shallowing with each step as I walked quickly to the nearest bathroom. Camila and the staff were too busy to notice my silent breakdown, but I couldn’t bear the thought of crying alone in the living room, surrounded by luggage that would go nowhere and hopes that’d been shattered too many times to mend properly.

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