Page 5 of Assistant to the Billionaire CEO

“But he better cheer up soon, or Axel will kick his ass out.” She grabbed an empty glass, gave me another smile, turned on her heel, and shuffled away from our table.

“I feel bad for Ace, man.” Miles held his pale lager in one hand and rested it against his chest, like he was holding some kind of helpless baby animal. A few light beers and one shot were enough to make him tipsy. “Allison, that”—he made quote fingers—“‘dream girl’of his, really did a fucking number on him. I’ve never seen him like this.”

“It’s damn normal. He thought he loved her.” Oliver speared his fingers through his hair. “You can’t blame him for feeling a little down.”

“I’m concerned about him, too,” I admitted. “But not for the same reasons.”

“What do you mean?”

“Look, I don’t want to speak ill of the guy while he’s taking a piss, but doesn’t this all seem just a little…off? The breakup. The sudden move to New York. The rush. Files got lost? Papers got shredded? Hello? Now he can’t get the paperwork ready. Would he really be selling Windsor Architects to us if it was doing as well as he says it is?”

“Damon, hang on,” Oliver said. “We’ve known Ace since college. He’d never screw us over. You know that.” He took a swig of beer. “He’s only selling 51 percent of it, and he still wants to be a director. Ace would never be stupid enough to make this position a condition if his company was built on sand.”

“I know that. But something’s not right.”

“He’s a stand-up fucking guy.” Miles flashed a toothy grin at me. “Yeah, you need to chill, man. He’s not the enemy.”

“For fuck’s sake, listen. I’m not saying he’s a bad guy.” I took my glasses off and pinched the bridge of my nose, trying to concentrate, despite the beer. “I’m saying that we need to do our homework. Your father will have our asses if this deal goes sideways and hurts the company.”

“Well.” Miles glanced up at me. “He will haveyourass. And not just your ass. Dad will fucking put you on the chopping block. He can’t harm me and Oliver because, well…he’d have no heirs. But you, my friend, are fair game.”

I took a swig of my beer. “Yeah. Thanks for that, Miles.” I set my drink in front of me and put my glasses back on to glare at him.

“What? Just being direct. Honest.”

Our table was rickety and wobbled at the slightest touch. Its poor construction had cost us more than one drink over the years, and I wasn’t looking to risk losing another one.

“Hmm. Actually, I see your point, Damon,” Oliver said, leaning forward, rubbing his chin. “I mean, I don’t think Ace is up to something, but checking up on how Windsor Architects is doing would be normal procedure. Just like any other firm. We need to know whether everything checks out, if the company’s financial reports confirm his claims—which they will, of course.”

Behind him, a group of dancers in bright-green T-shirts started “dancing,” circling around a table occupied by a group of burly bikers. Oliver lost his train of thought, glancing over his shoulder at the spectacle.

“Andwe need to know who he’s doing business with,” I said, attempting to draw his attention back to me. “Earlier tonight he mentioned drafting a blueprint for a mansion in Short Hills. Isn’t Ecclestone Construction currently busy with a project in Short Hills? If it were any other suburb, I’d be less worried, but there’s not a lot of construction that happens out there.”

Ecclestone Construction, a billion-dollar firm led by CEO Edmund Ecclestone—the self-proclaimed “Construction King of New York”—was not only a thief, but an immoral deceiver. An online cartoon in theNew York Timestitled “Après moi, le déluge” (basically “devil-may-care”) had made fun of the “ConstructionSharkof New York,” hinting at money-laundering scams that had brought several reputable firms to their knees. The article with the cartoon, and its absurdly large mustache gracing Ecclestone’s character, was removed twenty minutes later, unsurprisingly. Ecclestone had half of New York City in his pocket, and the colossal staff of lawyers he employed were doing their fucking jobs. Funnily enough, that and other claims going around hadn’t hurt Ecclestone in the least—his empire was thriving, bigger than ever.

Oliver turned back to me and narrowed his eyes. “Whatdid you say?”

“Ecclestone? Nah, man.” Miles set his beer down mid-swig and shook his head. “Nah.”

“Yeah. You’re going too far.” Oliver frowned and swallowed the last dregs of amber liquid from his glass. “There’s no fucking way. Ace is an honest guy. He wouldnever,not in a million years, associate with Ecclestone.”

“I know, and I won’t be any happier once we confirm that very point. But we’ve got to be sure,” I insisted, leaning back. “We’ve got to do our due diligence.”

“Hold on,” Miles said, lifting his hand. “I’ve got an idea.”

“What?”

For a moment it seemed like he was sifting through the drunken fog of his mind to find what he wanted to say. “Let’s just ask him. When he gets back from the bathroom, we’ll sit him down and say, ‘Hey, dude. Are you bankrupt—or, worse—buddy-buddy with Edmund fucking Ecclestone, that shady son of a bitch?’”

“Are you serious?” I was quickly losing my patience and definitely not sober, but what Miles had suggested wouldn’t have even made sense if I was flat-out drunk.

“Yeah, why not?” Miles appeared offended. “He’s our bro. Why shouldn’t we bedirectandhonestwith him?”

“Because,” I replied, growing irritated, “we have no way of guaranteeing that he’ll bedirectandhonestwith us, that’s why.”

“Hmm.” Oliver inclined his head. “Damon’s got a point. We better not mention anything to him.”

“Of course we shouldn’t.” I gave a curt nod. “There’s no point in pissing him off and screwing up the potential merger.”

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