Page 28 of Knotted

“As you can see,” Morrison, the finance guy, says, “we’re counting on these four major clients to catapult next quarter’s earnings projections. It’s the difference between keeping the company private or having to go public. Which would mean a hundred times the scrutiny and far less control.” He clears his throat. “Any unfavorable publicity could certainly tip the outcome.”

I feel the weight of two dozen anxious faces landing on me at once. Probably because last night, I sent Mark and Jess on their way to breathtaking Fiji. And now, a small part of me wishes I’d gone with them.

I blow out a breath and force a smile. “Why are you all staring at me?”

Morrison shifts uncomfortably. “You’re the heart of aHeraldarticle.”

“A favorable one,” I add, having caught up on it during the more boring moments of this meeting.

“And now, you’re having dinner with Roxana Voss,” one of the attorneys says. “Tonight, correct?”

I am? Shit, is that tonight? I was going to go on a city-wide search for my watch tonight.

I clench my jaw. “How do you know that?”

He flashes a grin, annoyingly upbeat. “Your calendar’s an open book, boss. That’s why you’re pulling in the big bucks.”

Perfect. Technically, I was supposed to confirm, which I haven’t. Mostly because after my dumpster fire of a morning, I’m dreading it.

Roxana takes stalking to an Olympic-level sport. For the poor bastards who don’t play along, she’s got a talent for writing scathing articles that can ruin reputations. Her takedowns of the rich and powerful are legendary. And that’s the last thing The Centurion Group needs right now.

They continue to stare, eyes wide with expectation. I lean back in my chair, exuding calm confidence. “It’s not a date. It’s a meeting. A professional meeting.”

“Then why is it at Salvatore’s?” he asks.

A few light snickers ripple through the room, and, fuck, why is it there? It was supposed to be here, at the office.

I let the moment settle, then add with a measured tone, “It’s under control. Let’s stay focused. We’ve got work to do.”

By mid-afternoon,just as the dust finally begins to settle, I stand by the office window and lose my gaze in the street below. Most of the morning’s chaos has cleared, but afew die-hard stragglers still linger, refusing to let up. What a mess.

A knock sounds at my door. “Come in.”

Imani steps in, her smile warm and all business. “Just a quick reminder about thething.” Imani isn’t just Mark’s assistant—she’s more like a team coach, handling everything from scheduling meetings to smoothing over any looming disaster, like the one she’s nudging me about right now.

Thatthingwould be my meeting with Roxana Voss. “Why is it at Salvatore’s?”

Imani shrugs helplessly. “She insisted.”

I loosen my tie, feeling the noose tighten at the mere thought of the evening ahead. “Great.”

“Don’t worry. Salvatore’s is a great place for a meeting. I have standing instructions with Mark, so I called ahead and ensured a good, quiet table for a meeting.”

She hands me a Post-It. “The place isn’t far from your Upper East Side digs. The maître d’ is expecting you. Private dining room. Dinner at eight.”

“Private dining room?” I echo, arching a brow. I’ve been going to Salvatore’s on and off for years, mostly for business because pretentious and overpriced isn’t exactly my thing. But a private dining room? Never noticed one before. And noticing shitismy thing. Along with surveillance, reconnaissance, and dragging skeletons out of closets.

I take the card, shaking my head. “It’s bad enough I’ll be seated across from a piranha. Is the private room really necessary?”

Imani shrugs. “The good thing is if there are no witnesses, it never happened.”

I chuckle. “Good point.”

Two sharp knocks sound at the door. Then it flies open without waiting for a “come in.”

A tornado of kids rush past Imani. Connor, the teenager, strides to the floor-to-ceiling windows, his eyes going wide as he takes in the sprawling view of Central Park. “Whoa,” he breathes, completely entranced.

Ollie, the eight-year-old, makes a beeline for my desk chair, sprawling out with a comic book like he owns the place.

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