Page 5 of The Lies of Bryn van Doren

“There’s a reason why, after eleven years, you’re still my favorite person,” she starts to say. “We don’t fuck each other, we don’t—”

“—fuck each other’s men, and we don’t fuck with each other’s money. I know. Doesn’t change my offer.”

“I know.”

This time it’s Stefano who tugs on Jessica’s hands. He turns them, revealing her wrists, and kisses each one before he lets her go. “You’re a badass, my dove. You know that, right?”

Raking her fingers through her hair with one hand, she reaches for her coffee with her other. In all honesty, most days she’s not sure if she’s a badass or merely a stubborn woman who was raised not to take any handouts from anyone.

“All right, it’s settled,” demands Stefano as he reaches for his own coffee. “Your next night off, I’m taking you to The Critic. I won’t take no for an answer. We need to get you to Manhattan in the smallest dress we can find.”

“Huey,” she laughs, lifting her mug to her lips.

“Not kidding. Deal with your shit, but know I’m coming for you. You need to get out for some fun, even if you won’t admit it.”

“I’m not off until—”

“Great. It’s a date,” he interrupts with an impish grin.

As she begins to argue otherwise, Wendy arrives with their pie. Stefano is quick to fill his spoon with a bite. When Jessica opens her mouth to speak, he shoves the utensil in her mouth.

“Ah-ah—it’s time for pie, dove.”

With nothing left to do, she lets the warm, crumbly, butter crust of the apple pie melt the cool vanilla ice cream on her tongue. Her taste buds rejoice as Stefano extracts the spoon. Any fight she had left in her dissipates.

Khalohn steps offthe elevator and reaches for his billfold, tucked into the inside of his blue, Tom Ford designer jacket. He pulls it free as he crosses the small distance to his suite’s entrance. Waving the thin, leather wallet in front of the card reader, the radioactive chip in his access key triggers the lock on the door, allowing him to walk over the threshold. There’s a reception desk situated a few feet in front of him, the weekly floral arrangement displayed on the end adorned with hues of summer. The common space beyond the entryway is filled with couches and chairs, the décor rich in shades of navy, brown, and gray. The motion-activated lights power on overhead, following him as he turns and travels toward his corner office on the far-left side of the suite.

He doesn’t bother to look between the white columns spaced along the right side of the corridor, sure the rows of desks which fill the bullpen are currently vacant. At six-thirty in the morning, the associates at Khalohn Morgan are not often at their stations. He prefers it that way. There’s something about having the office to himself that brings him peace. The silence reminds him how it all started—with him, alone, and nothing more than his willingness to take a risk.

It’s been three years since his firm outgrew their previous space, granting him the opportunity to move and lease an entire floor on Wall Street. His is the fastest growing acquisition firm the city has seen in years, and Khalohn has been turning heads and making his name known worldwide. The sound of his shoes, clicking against the concrete floor, bounces off the glass walls of the conference rooms to his left as he passes. Each is filled with its own unique décor, every meeting space designed to house various amounts of occupants. Not one with an eye for design, he hired an interior decorator he could trust. A few million dollars later, he had an office that still fills him with pride each time he walks through it. Building something ofworthis an aspiration which continues to drive him every day.

He glances at the empty desk located outside his office, the surface of the unmanned station as tidy as it always is. He thinks nothing of it and crosses into his own domain. As he shrugs out of his jacket and hangs it on the steel coat rack beside the door, his eyes roam about the room.

The classic, tuft-backed, chestnut brown, Italian leather sofa, finished with hand-carved legs and clawed feet is situated against his side wall. The navy suede, egg shaped chair beside it is a modern contrast he knows not why he appreciates. On top of the distressed, gray metal trunk, serving as his coffee table, is a stack of contracts he was reviewing the night before. He ignores them for now and glances out the wall of windows in front of him as he makes his way behind his desk, his view that of the sunrise reflecting off the East River. Anxious to dive into the deal that closed the night before, he finds his way to his office chair without allowing himself to get distracted by the vantage point found on the fifty-second story.

He powers on his computer and navigates his way to the files he’s been sifting through for weeks. The team of accountants he’s had on the Japanese shipyard have reviewed the numbers thoroughly, but Khalohn has always been one to do his own due diligence. Before moving forward with his expansion plan, he needs to be so well acquainted with the shipyard’s books he can recognize them in his sleep.

At seven-thirty on the dot, there are two taps on Khalohn’s door. He doesn’t bother to answer before it opens, and Maribelle enters the room. The slight woman is dressed in a fitted, pale blue, floral print shift dress, her nude heels against the thin carpet beneath them marking the beat of her step as she rounds the front of his desk.

Khalohn glances to his right as his secretary sets down his usual morning tray, complete with an empty mug, a French press full of freshly brewed coffee, and a toasted whole-wheat bagel. He notices her bright red lipstick, darker than the pink she had on the day before, and the string of pearls adorning her pale, slender neck. Her dark, curly hair, streaked with gray, is styled in the same bob she’s had since he met her six years ago; and when she smiles at him, the wrinkles around her lips soften.

“Good morning, dear,” she says in greeting, clasping her hands together.

Khalohn doesn’t mind the familiarity, the longevity of her loyalty and the motherly way she’s always doted upon him earning her the right. Dipping his chin in a small nod, he replies, “Maribelle.”

“Tell me you went home last night and got some rest.”

He looks down at himself, silently pointing out his fresh suit, and Maribelle rolls her eyes.

“Don’t patronize me. Don’t make me walk to your closet to check your stash, either. I wasn’t born yesterday, Morgan.”

Fighting a smirk, Khalohn assures her, “I slept. A night in my own bed was necessary.”

“Good,” she starts to say as she begins to take her leave. “Your lawyers will be here in thirty minutes. Would you like me to buzz you five minutes prior to your meeting?”

“Please.”

“Very well, dear.”

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