Page 33 of Between Passion and Revenge: Part One

“Yes,” I clip out. “And I need you to find out why he’s being named. Figure out all the dirt you can on him, what moves he’s making, and why the fuck my father would think that motherfucker would be the best solution to run a $600 billion hedge fund.”

The tension in my chest returns, and I rub my fist over it, putting the call on speaker to reach for the pack of Tums in my top drawer.

Twenty-three and already needing antacids due to stress.

“Mmkay,” Axel says, chewing into the line. “Got it.” He crunches on what has to be a chip. Cool Ranch Doritos, if I had to guess.

“Timeline?” I ask.

He hums. “Preliminary info is already in your high-side inbox. Gimmie seventy-two hours for the real juicy shit.”

A grin spreads across my face. This is going to work. This issogoing to fucking work.

“Perfect.”

Axel hangs up the phone without another word.

The first file is a series of financial statements from Stratos’ subsidiaries. I skim through the numbers, but there’s something off about the dates. The transactions’ patterns are messy, the accounting looks rushed, and the discrepancies are subtle enough anyone but a trained eye might miss them.

I dig deeper, pulling up another file Axel sent, this one a list of recent board meetings. A few names pop up—all partners I know—but what stands out is the sudden involvement of a new figure at the most recent gathering: Benjamin Brigham.

“Where do I know that name from?” I say out loud, picking up my pen and tapping the yellow notepad. My knee jerks up and down in a fast staccato. Maybe my father mentioned him in passing, but he’s clearly not important enough to warrant me taking note.

Benjamin Brigham’s name only appears once, and outside of the meeting minutes, there’s no other discussion about the man.

But it’s an anomaly, and the meeting was just days before Dad announced Lakeland as the successor to Stratos.

My phone pings again. This time, it’s an alarm I set to make sure I’m not late for class. It’s easy for me to hyperfocus and get lost in numbers. That’s partially why I was running behind on the first day of classes. I’d read a press release for a new eco-tech startup and fell down the rabbit hole with projections and the latest legislation.

Slamming my laptop closed, I stuff everything in my bag and head downstairs.

When I hit the parking garage, I’m startled when Riale materializes in front of me, his face unreadable.

“Need a ride?” he asks, motioning to his idling Suburban.

“What are you doing? If you needed to shadow me, you could have just done that.”

“Do I need an excuse to hang out with you, bruh? Woooooow,” he drawls.

“Maaaan,” I say, matching his energy. “Stop with all the bullshit.”

Riale rolls his eyes and says, “This is not calculus. Decide: Are you getting in my car or not?”

I think about it for one second more before eventually shrugging. Getting to school sooner via Riale is a better bet than fucking around in the garage.

I slide into the SUV and Riale takes a moment to adjust the temperature and radio dials.

“How’s school?” he asks, and my eyebrows shoot up. Riale isn’t a guy to hold polite conversation, so this is rare…and strange.

“Why the fuck do you care aboutschool?” I drawl, suspicious.

More silence falls in the car, andTo Pimp a Butterflyplays low in the background.

“My bad,” I mumble.

Riale lifts his chin a fraction, the only acknowledgement I’ll get about his reaction to my outburst. Riale’s been dealing with my short temper and fuck ups for years.

He’s used to it.

---