Page 8 of The Tycoon's Pet

“Alright, here’s where things get a bit murky,” John says, lowering his voice. “We can leverage our contacts in the media. Feed them some information that will divert attention from you and Christy. It’s risky, but if done right, it could shift the spotlight.”

I frown, trying to wrap my head around his suggestion. “You mean plant a story?”

“Something like that,” John admits. “But it’s a gamble. If it blows up, it could cause more trouble. It needs to be handled delicately.”

I shake my head, the idea not sitting well with me. “That would mean stooping to their level, John. There has to be another way.”

John looks thoughtful for a moment before he speaks again. “Well, I could find out who’s behind the blog and put some pressure on them. Not in a threatening way, but let them know we’re serious about taking action. Sometimes, a little push is all it takes for them to back off.”

“That sounds more like it,” I say, feeling a bit of relief. “How quickly can we get this done?”

“I’ll get started right away,” John assures, his lips spreading slowly in an almost senile smile. “Watch the story disappear like it never happened.”

“Thanks, man,” I say, feeling some of the pressure in my chest ease. “I knew I could count on you.”

“Just doing my job,” Paul replies with a good-natured smile this time. “That reminds me, your housekeeper stopped by my office yesterday.”

“Kayla?” I ask, blinking at him in surprise.

“The very one,” he replies, nodding. “She wanted to go through the legal aspects of starting a business.”

“What?” I am in shock, wondering why Kayla didn’t tell me about the meeting, wondering why she didn’t ask me to go with her.

Does she even want me in her life?

“Did you not know about it?” John asks, his brows deepening lightly. “I thought you sent her my way.”

"I did," I reply, keeping my expression neutral even when my insides were burning up.

“I see,” John says, although his expression suggests he doesn't quite believe me. He pushes his chair back and stands up. “Well, I should let you get back to work now. I’ll handle the stuff with the media. See you around.”

I nod, forcing a smile. “Thanks for stopping by, John. Take care.”

As he leaves, I sit back in my chair, staring at the door. I can’t let this stop me, if I’m not honest with Kayla now, I’ll regret it for the rest of my life.

I have to get to Kayla.

Chapter Four

Kayla

I sink into the worn but comfortable armchair in Paul’s living room, a steaming mug of coffee cradled in my hands. The rhythmic hum of the laundry running in the background is usually soothing, but today it barely cuts through the fog of anxiety clouding my mind. My head is literally swimming, thoughts colliding as I stare at the binder spread open before me, filled with pages of notes, plans, and checklists—all the details I need to nail down before I can even think about opening my flower shop.

Numbers and logistics have always been my forte, but this? This feels insurmountable. For as much as I’ve dreamed of starting my own business, bringing it to life is proving to be more challenging than I ever anticipated. Each page in the binder represents a hurdle I need to overcome, and the mountain of tasks ahead is starting to feel more like an avalanche.

Taking a deep breath, I try to steady my racing thoughts. This has been my dream for so long, and the thought of failing now, when I'm so close, is almost unbearable. I take a small sip of my coffee, slowly flipping through the binder. I've divided the plan into sections; finances, inventory, and marketing but the more I read, the more overwhelmed I feel.

Just as I feel like I'm about to get drowned in my fears, I hear the sound of a car in the driveway. I look up with a slight frown, wondering who it could be. It's only past midday, so I'm not expecting Paul back home anytime soon. Snapping my binder closed, I walk over to peep through the window just in time to see Paul's BMW pulling into the garage.

I make it back to the couch in time to throw my binder inside my purse. I’ve just settled back down when Paul walks in, looking dangerously handsome as usual in a dark blue tailored suit that fits perfectly against his tall frame. His eyes instantly find mine, their striking green depths burning with an intensity that ceases my breath.

My mouth suddenly goes dry, my heart beating abnormally fast.

“H-hi,” I stammer, shifting on the couch, nervously.

Paul steps aside wordlessly and I realize he isn't alone. Behind him is a tall, slim man in a colorful yet fashionable suit and a pretty brunette lady in a formal outfit that almost resembles a uniform. Both are armed with several packages, but mostly brand bags with expensive designer logos.

“This is Gabe Howard, Seattle’s finest stylist,” Paul says, gesturing at the man beside him. “He's a very busy man, so I barely managed to get him down here on such short notice.”

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