Welcome to:

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Four years after unimaginable tragedy, Agathe Santos knows that hope is for losers and so is love. Work has become her greatest escape.

Accidental CEO Luke Tindall wants a wife, a family, a love that will last. He might have hired Agathe to save his company and deal with his goofy brother, but from the very first meeting, he has desired far more than her sharp wit and tireless work ethic. If only her past wasn’t such a big secret. If only that secret wasn’t a wound she didn’t want healed. Maybe then she’d share more with him than her body.

But even as Agathe can no longer deny her feelings for Luke, love is not something she thinks she deserves. Now she must brave her boldest choice yet: lose Luke forever, or lose the one thing that makes her life worth living.

A slow burn romance about finding love in unexpected places.

“Get the h--- out of bed, you lazy punk.”

 

Something hits my back, pulling me from a dreamless sleep, and I grunt before rolling to my side. “What the f---, Pops?” I don’t bother asking how my old man got into my apartment.

 

Don’t ask stupid questions, don’t get stupid answers.

 

When you live in one of the apartments he sells…

 

The man has the master key.

 

“Get dressed. Meet me in the penthouse in fifteen minutes.”

 

I groan, rolling to sit on the side of the bed. Thankfully, I slept in my boxers last night–that’s not always the case.

 

“I can’t even take a morning sh-- that fast.”

 

The words weren’t meant to get to him as he walked out of the apartment, but they must because my father yells back, “Take your sh--. But every five minutes you’re late will cost you one-fifty K.”

 

Considering the moment he finds out about yet another trip to Edge and Bliss I’ll be out a hundred thousand, I’d rather not risk more. Let’s just say I budget to lose a few hundred thousand dollars every month–interest rates and stocks keep my accounts otherwise healthy between social appearances–but another quarter mill is not in the budget.

 

And my old man doesn’t believe in empty threats.

 

Scowling, I pad to the bathroom and wash my face after p--sing. Multitasking, I brush my teeth while combing my hair back, only to shake it to the side, allowing it to fall messily over my brow.

 

I give a few swipes of deodorant to my underarms then walk into the large master closet. Before Pops let me take the place, it was a small home office. It’s better used as a closet, you ask me.

 

Dressed in joggers that hug my upper ankles and a long-sleeved shirt, I push my feet into NOBULL runners. Any other meeting, Pops would have coffee and pastry for his guests but I know better than to expect the same.

 

I grab a banana and peel it back as I head out of the unit and toward the elevator bank. There are only three apartments on this floor–mine, Ro’s, and what was Ryan’s. Pops doesn’t have a place in the building, although he’s been known to sleep in the penthouse on occasion.

 

Instead of a livable apartment, the penthouse is more of a luxury office and entertainment space for him to schmooze his elite friends.

 

Stifling a yawn, I walk into the private elevator, punch in my personal key code, and take another bite of banana as the doors close.

 

The building has three elevators–a freight elevator, a public elevator, and the Chamberlain elevator, only accessible by those with a code. It means I can get to my place quickly and without worrying about other people. Guests of ours get their own code, and theirs changes every week for security reasons. For a while, I gave Declan my code but then Pops added fingerprint scanners to each button, because why make things easy…?

 

It doesn’t take but a few seconds for the elevator to rocket to the penthouse level and when the doors open, they open directly into the suite.

 

The entire space is surrounded by glass, giving amazing views of the Manhattan skyline.

 

It’s wasted space, being used as it is.

 

There must be other people joining Pops and me because the marble countertop in the open-concept kitchen has bottled water lined up in neat rows, and an open box I recognize from The Donut Pub, half the donuts picked through already.

 

“Score,” I mumble aloud, reaching for a classic croissant donut. There’s talking coming from what would be the master bedroom but is Pops’s main office. I toss what remains from my banana in an open garbage can and take a bite of the fluffy donut.

 

When I enter the room this surprise meeting is taking place in, talking doesn’t stop but every person in the sixteen by sixteen space looks in my direction.

 

I don’t recognize a single soul in the room.

 

Besides my father, anyhow.

 

There’s a redhead knockout standing in front of a window but the diamond on her finger says she’s very much taken. Dam-, is it noticeable. Her husband must have a small d--k. Needs the world to know she’s taken. He’s probably way out of his league with her.

 

She’s standing slightly behind another woman, this one probably closer to my age. She has that fake gray/platinum hair thing going on and wears a pantsuit that’s navy blue. She leans into the desk my father sits at, to point at something and my father nods. “Yes, that one, too. Thank you.”

 

He doesn’t bother to stand but snaps to someone while looking in my direction. Stuffing the last of the donut in my mouth, I look over my shoulder and notice yet another woman.

 

Dam-, Pops could have an o-gy in here.

 

“Zach, take a seat,” he tells me as the other woman closes the office door–as if someone random could accidentally walk onto the penthouse floor.

 

Unless he’s expecting more people.

 

I sit down in the highback leather chair on the guest side of his desk and rest my ankle on the opposite knee. With my hands locked over my stomach, I lean back and shrug a shoulder. “You’ve got quite the party going on in here, Pops.”

 

His scowl is classic Charles Chamberlain.

 

I don’t know if the man knows how to smile.

 

Even in pictures where he’s sold twenty-million dollar properties, he looks like he sucked on a lemon. The last time the man looked happy was at his wedding to Mom, but my only proof of that is in pictures.

 

He leans to the side while seated and pulls up a thick leather folder. After standing, he slams it down onto the desk–clearly for the dramatics. He takes on a completely different persona, going from the cool and collected businessman to the pissed-off patriarch.

 

I lift a brow, not about to take his bait.

 

Pops braces a fist on the desk as he opens the folder, revealing magazine and newspaper clippings.

 

He takes out one and places it in front of me, followed by another, and another, as if this is some sort of Law & Order interrogation.

 

“You are ruining our name, one day at a time,” Pops scolds. I drop my eyes to look at the clippings and see they’re different headlines I’ve made over the last year.

 

Edge and Bliss.

 

Yacht parties on Chamberlain’s BellaView.

 

That time I got drunk at LAX.

 

I’m getting ready to tell him our name was ruined long before I could aid in the process, but he continues, “You are going to abide by my rules or your inheritance is gone. Dried up.”

 

The redhead shifts, catching my attention, and her frown tells me she doesn’t agree with the statement. She must not know how old money works. Sure, there are legalities…but Pops also knows people who know people, and you can get around just about anything when you have the right connections.

 

Besides, my inheritance can dry up but I’ll still have money coming in. Not at the same pace, no, but I won’t be broke, trying to survive on less than mid-six figures a year. That was something the whole fiasco with Ryan taught me–make money but put it somewhere our father can’t reach. It’s certainly not a liveable savings right now, not at my current lifestyle, but it’s a nice start.

 

“I don’t see how my partying and having a good time affects you, Pops. I’m paid to make appearances at some of those places. This one,” showing more annoyance than I feel because it’s always a game with my father, I drop my foot so both are planted and point at the ripped cover of Razzi from last summer, “was a three-hundred thousand dollar appearance. I hung out for three hours and got paid before I even stepped foot in the club. This one,” I shuffle the papers aside to another one I caught when he laid them out, “is the one that got me that job.”

 

“And do you get paid to f--- here,” he asks, reshuffling the papers so last night’s shots of Deck and I entering Bliss are on the top, “or are you just there tarnishing your image?”

 

“My image is not tarnished there, I can guarantee you that,” I chuckle dryly. “I have quite a good reputation, if you know what I mean.”

 

“There’s more to life than f---ing pros---utes.”

 

“They’re not pros---utes, Pops. They’re dancers and they’re people who like to explore the finer aspects of life. If you were having s-x, you’d understand.”

 

Apparently, he’s over my presentation because he slams both fists down, making the women in the room startle. “That is enough! I have had enough of your smart mouth. You are such a disappointment, Zachary!”

 

I clap my hands slowly. I’ve had over twenty years of experience with this whole song and dance. I am not affected in the least. “You’ve gotten really good at that line, Pops. I mean, I know you’ve had a few years to practice after Dani was born in regards to Ryan, but… Real good, old man. It’ll be–” I kiss my fingers, “chef’s kiss, when it’s Rowan’s turn to hear the bull.”

 

His Botoxed face reddens but he doesn’t lay into me the way I know he would if we didn’t have an audience. “This afternoon, you will be boarding a plane. As of seven a.m. this morning, you have no money.”

 

Ready to call his bluff, I pull out my phone and open my banking app.

 

“You will get it back in six months when your trip ends,” he continues as I press the screen but I’m not really listening because the a--hole isn’t lying.

 

It’s gone.

 

A number I’ve only ever seen when I’ve opened an account stares back at me.

 

 

“That’s my f---ing money,” I finally lose my cool for real, standing and tossing my phone–bank app open–onto the desk. Millions of dollars…

 

Drained.

 

Gone.

 

Vanished.