Page 42 of Man of the Year

Well, that was quick. Rosenberg’s on the move.

My pulse spikes—it’s time to find out what the Man of the Year is all about.

THIRTY-ONE

NATALIE

This is the oddest party I’ve been to.

It’s in full swing. The young entrepreneurs drink more than anyone, but I’ve never served so many energy drinks, healthy juices, and non-alcoholic sparkling concoctions.

“They didn’t come here to party,” Rosalie explains with an important face when I bring it up. “They are networking.”

“Yeah, okay. That blondie who was talking to Rosenberg was definitely not networking. Unless spreading her legs ‘somewhere private’ as per our boss is considered networking.”

Rosalie’s expression changes. “Keep doing what you are doing, Natalie.” She shoves another tray of drinks into my hands and tries to usher me out.

“Should I go check on that girl? She’s in the library.”

“Natalie?” Rosalie warns me.

“Rosalie?” I cock my head at her.

She gives me a backward nod. “Go do your job. What the boss does in private is none of your business.”

Shoving my irritation down, I walk out and turn the other way, toward the library, when her sharp voice stops me. “Natalie!”

I turn to see Rosalie in the doorway, glaring at me. She jerks her head in the opposite direction.

Ugh.

I turn on my heel and hurry out onto the terrace.

And here’s the sight to behold!

Rosenberg stands with his arms spread like a king, a large crowd gathered around him.

“To I! X! Research!” he roars, literally roars, face lifted to the sky as the crowd around him cheers enthusiastically.

“To the power of the digital world!” he roars again, the applause and whistling escalating.

“To the crypto empire!”

The crowd goes wild.

“Cheers!” he roars again, downing the liquid from a champagne flute and pumping the air above him with his fist as the crowd starts chanting, “I! X! I! X! I! X!”

With a drunk grin, Rosenberg stumbles toward the terrace doors.

He’s wasted.Shocker.I’ve seen this before, the rapid slide into unruly drunkenness, and that’s what Rosenberg is. Either he can’t hold his liquor, or it kicks in a bipolar effect on his personality. I get why there’s a no-drinking rule at the house, because as Rosenberg walks by me, there’s a dangerous burn in his glassy eyes.

My concern is for the blondie in the library.

I hustle between the guests, trying to get rid of the drinks on my tray and collect the empty ones. My nerves are on edge, the blondie on my mind.

It takes me an annoyingly long time, and by the time I walk back into the mansion, something has changed inside.

The house is empty of guests. A tall figure blocks the hallway that goes from the living room toward the east wing—it’s Dave, the security guard.

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