Page 18 of Over the Edge

I leaned forward again. “What I’m offering is the future, Monsieur Moreau. And the future pays more than whatever short-sighted bid you’d get from some warlord at auction. Like you said, the rules only stay simple when you’re in control. How long do you think that lasts once you let this tech loose?”

“Imagine,” Flynn added, “every small-time player with a grudge and enough money to spend coming for you because they think you’ve gotten too powerful.”

Moreau exhaled a half-laugh. “I’m careful with who I invite to my auctions.”

“Right,” Flynn said, deadpan. “I’m sure all of them are upstanding citizens who would never betray you.”

Moreau shifted in his chair.

There it was. The crack.

I moved in to exploit it. “What I’m offering is more than money. I’m offering a business partnership. You sell Sentinel to me, and I use my connections to market it as an exclusive security system to all of my friends. The demand for specialized tech goes through the roof, and every player in the market comes to you for their own private version of Sentinel. The oligarchs and oil lords, the heirs and diplomats. All the ones who matter. You’ll be the sole supplier of the world’s most secure private network.”

He didn’t respond immediately, but I could see the wheels turning behind his eyes.

“Security,” Moreau repeated, as if tasting the word. “A bold strategy, Elisa. It would potentially take years to pay off.”

“I’m in it for the long game,” I said. “Are you?”

A tense silence followed. The only sound was the clink of his ring as he tapped his finger against his glass.

“I’ll consider it…” His smile finally returned, but it was a razor-thin line. “If you have dinner with me.” His gaze cut to Flynn. “Alone.”

And there it was. Just as Flynn had predicted, Moreau wanted all of Elisa—her money, her attention, her body—but Colt Mercer was in his way.

“Dinner?” Flynn drawled. “Hell of a gamble, asking a woman out in front of the guy who makes her scream his name every night.”

I exhaled sharply and really hoped it came across as annoyance rather than the suppressed laugh it had been.

The look on Moreau’s face was priceless. “Confidence is an admirable trait, Mr. Mercer. Though in excess, it often reads as overcompensation.”

“Moreau, when a man delivers like I do, he doesn’t need to compensate for a damn thing.”

A muscle twitched near Moreau’s temple.

I exhaled again, fighting down the smirk trying to rise, hoping I still looked vaguely irritated.

But inside?

Oh, I was absolutely enjoying this.

Moreau swirled his drink, taking his time, like he hadn’t just been verbally gut-checked in front of an audience. Then, slowly, his smirk returned, and his gaze slid back to me, dismissing Flynn entirely. “So, Elisa. You’ve heard my counteroffer. What do you say?”

I let the moment stretch just long enough to make him sweat before I sighed. “Alright. Dinner.”

Flynn tensed beside me. His hand curled into a loose fist against his thigh, his whole body going still. He was pissed, and I didn’t think it was just an act. Which was ridiculous because this fake-lover, make-Moreau-jealous thing had been his plan from the start.

Moreau stood, and I followed suit. Flynn stayed seated.

“Excellent,” Moreau said. “I’ll send a car for you at eight.”

“Looking forward to it.” I turned away before I could see Flynn’s reaction and strolled out of the beach club into the bright afternoon. I heard Flynn’s angry footsteps approaching fast behind me.

The second we climbed into the sleek black limo waiting at the curb, Flynn let out a short, disbelieving laugh. “You have got to be kidding me.”

“Relax, Shepherd. It’s just dinner.”

He scoffed. “You’re letting that smug bastard think he’s got a shot.”

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