Chapter 8 - The Morning After
I woke to the smell of fresh coffee and the harsh, blinding glare of a winter sunrise reflecting off the Atlantic Ocean.
For three seconds, I didn't remember where I was.
The sheets beneath me were not the scratchy, faded cotton of my North End apartment; they were eight-hundred-thread-count Egyptian cotton, silky and impossibly soft. The ceiling above was twenty feet high, exposed concrete and sleek recessed lighting.
Then, the events of the previous night crashed over me like a tidal wave.
The gala. The shattered glass. Marcus tearing up the speech on live television. The allegations of fraud against the Anderson trust. The Maybach.
And Marcus.
I rolled onto my side, clutching the heavy duvet to my chest.
The other side of the massive bed was empty, the sheets cold. A panic spiked in my chest—a terrifying, irrational instinct that whispered it had all been a fever dream.
Then, I heard voices floating up from the lower level.
Quiet, rapid, and intensely serious.
I slipped out of bed, my body aching in places that made heat rush straight to my cheeks. Resting on the bedside chair was a heavy, charcoal-gray cashmere robe that clearly belonged to Marcus. I slipped my arms into the sleeves, rolling them up three times to free my hands, tied the belt tightly around my waist, and walked barefoot to the glass railing overlooking the living room.
Marcus was standing by the massive slate fireplace.
He was wearing dark slacks and a black turtleneck sweater, his dark hair still damp from the shower. In his hand was a steaming mug of black coffee.
Standing across from him was Harrison, his chief legal counsel, looking like a man who had aged ten years overnight. Harrison had three open leather briefcases spread across the dining table, surrounded by stacks of legal affidavits and an illuminated laptop.
“The Boston Globe has the story on the front page of the Sunday edition,” Harrison was saying, his voice strained with anxiety. “*‘Vale Dynastic War: CEO Halts Gala, Levels Fraud Charges at Anderson Heiress.’* It’s everywhere, Marcus. Bloomberg, Reuters, the Wall Street Journal. The Anderson stock in Europe dropped thirty-two percent at the open in Frankfurt.”
“Good,” Marcus said, taking a calm sip of his coffee. “Let it hit zero.”
“Marcus, you don't understand the board’s reaction,” Harrison pleaded, running a trembling hand through his thinning hair. “Arthur has already mobilized his bloc. They’re holding the emergency session at nine o’clock at the downtown headquarters. They’ve drafted a resolution of no confidence. They’re moving to strip you of the Chief Executive title and install an interim management committee led by Arthur’s cronies.”
Marcus didn't even flinch. “Let them draft it.”
“They have sixty percent of the voting shares if the Anderson trust votes with Arthur!” Harrison shouted, his professional composure completely disintegrating. “Marcus, you will lose the company! They will lock you out of your own office by noon!”
“They can try,” Marcus replied, his voice chillingly calm. “Did you serve the federal subpoenas to Arthur’s personal accountants this morning?”
Harrison blinked. “Yes. At six o’clock.”
“And the forensic audit on the offshore accounts in the Cayman Islands?”
“Harrison & Croft couriered the files directly to the United States Attorney’s office thirty minutes ago,” Harrison admitted, his shoulders sagging. “Arthur is finished, Marcus. Even if he wins the board vote, the Department of Justice will freeze his personal assets before the end of the week. But it’s mutual destruction! You’re burning the house down while you’re still inside it!”
“I’m not inside it, Harrison,” Marcus said quietly, turning to look toward the floating staircase.
He saw me.
The cold, ruthless mask of the corporate raider instantly vanished, replaced by an expression of pure, breathtaking warmth that made my knees weak all over again. He set his coffee mug down on the mantel and walked toward the stairs.
Harrison turned, following Marcus’s gaze, his eyes widening as he saw me standing at the top of the glass stairs in Marcus’s oversized cashmere robe, my hair wild, my lips still slightly bruised from the night before.
Harrison’s mouth opened, closed, and opened again. “Miss... Miss Morales.”
“Good morning, Harrison,” I said, keeping my dignity intact as I walked down the stairs, the cashmere hem sweeping the glass steps.
Marcus met me at the base of the stairs. He didn't care that his chief legal counsel was watching. He reached out, took my hand, and pulled me gently into his arms, kissing the top of my head with a tenderness that made Harrison look intensely uncomfortable.
“Did I wake you?” Marcus murmured against my hair.
“The shouting did,” I said, looking up into his tired, beautiful blue eyes. “Marcus... Harrison is right. The emergency board meeting is in an hour. You have to prepare.”
Marcus smiled—a small, arrogant, utterly fearless curve of his lips.
“I’ve been prepared for this meeting for five years, Celine.”
He turned back toward the table, releasing me, though his hand remained lightly resting against the small of my back.
“Harrison, pack up the files,” Marcus ordered. “We’re leaving in twenty minutes.”
“Sir,” Harrison said, his voice trembling. “Are you sure you want to attend in person? Arthur’s security might physically bar you from the boardroom.”
“Let them try to bar the man whose name is on the front of the building,” Marcus said coldly.
He turned back to me, his expression softening once more. “I need to go downtown and finish this, Celine. Stay here. My personal security team is stationed at the building entrance. No one can touch you here.”
I looked at him. I looked at the dark circles beneath his eyes, the tension held in the broad line of his shoulders, the sheer weight of the war he was about to fight alone in that high-rise boardroom.
“No,” I said.
Marcus frowned. “Celine—”
“I’m coming with you.”
“Absolutely not,” Marcus said, his voice instantly tightening with protective instinct. “Arthur will be there. The board will be in an uproar. It’s going to be a bloodbath. I won't expose you to that venom.”
“I am the reason this war started, Marcus,” I said, stepping firmly into his space, looking up into his eyes with an unyielding resolve that matched his own. “Arthur threatened me in his library. Vanessa tried to frame me for embezzlement. They tried to use me as a weapon to break you. I am not going to hide in your luxury penthouse like a kept mistress while you fight for your life.”
I grabbed the lapels of his black sweater.
“You burned your empire for me last night. The least I can do is stand beside you while you sweep up the ashes.”
Harrison stood by the table, staring at me with something resembling awe.
Marcus stared at me for three long seconds. The resistance in his eyes slowly crumbled, replaced by a fierce, blazing pride that made my heart swell.
A slow smile touched his lips.
May you like
“Harrison,” Marcus said, never breaking eye contact with me. “Call the car. And tell the boardroom caterer to step aside. Miss Morales is accompanying the Chief Executive.”
***
