Page 7 of The Billionaire's Fake Fiancée

Clark sits and crosses his legs. He has short, coiled hair and a coiled runner’s body. He’s smart, intuitive, and clients love him. “Ready for the good news? I took Gail to breakfast.”

“Good.” Clark is good with Gail. He’s good with all of the clients. “And?”

“I told her about the new algorithm. She’s very interested. Very positive.” He pauses then, and there’s something about the pause I don’t like.

“What?”

“I told her how eager you are to discuss it with her. On the yacht next week.”

I turn to face him. “What?”

“You know you have to say yes this year,” he says. “If you want her business.”

He’s talking about a two-week megayacht trip I always get invited to. A yearly Driscoll affair with extended family, friends, and business movers and shakers. I’ve turned down the invitation for the past three years. It’s a megayacht that’s longer than a football field and full of shuffleboard courts, cabanas, games, musical shows. A little slice of hell, basically.

“Anything but that.”

“Rex. If you want Driscoll—all of Driscoll—then you will put on a sailor hat, and you will get on that yacht, and you will show her somebody who fits in over there. You will correct the impression that the article made.”

I groan.

“I’m sure the thing has business services,” he says. “You can work while you’re there.”

“On what planet do I take two weeks out of my schedule—”

“You want Driscoll?” he asks.

I sigh. “Is Wydover going to be on board?”

“No, but he was at her New Year’s ranch gala. Maybe that’s how he wheedled into the running.”

The Driscoll ranch gala. Another invitation I blew off.

“You take that vacation,” Clark says. “Somebody else has her ear, and they’re talking up Wydover. And now the article? You need to get in there and do some personal damage control. Show Gail that the guy who gets her the best return is also the Driscoll family kind of people.”

I’m not the Driscoll family kind of people. I grew up in South Boston, living in the back of my father’s bar, working after school from the age of ten. To read that article, however, you’d think I spent my youth brawling in gutters and snatching old ladies’ purses when the truth is, I did everything I could do to keep my nose clean. What’s more, the article made my rise look like it was all about luck. Sure, I was lucky—I made my luck by being the best at what I do. Working twice as hard as Pete Wydover.

“You think Wydover had a hand in that article?” I ask Clark.

“Hard to say,” Clark says. “The point is, you have to go. This is the price of admission for her account. I’ll be there. She invited me, too.”

I stare up at the ceiling. Clark’s right. This is the price of admission. Except I hate boats. I hate events. I hate forced socializing.

But I love the idea of the Driscoll account.

Having all of Driscoll’s assets under management will give me more financial power than most governments, but it’s about more than that—there are only a few accounts of that size in the world. Landing one has always symbolized something ineffable to me. Strength. Freedom. Untouchability. But more, somehow—something I can’t put my finger on.

“I guess I can work in my room,” I say.

Clark is watching me. Monitoring my expression in a way that makes me nervous.

“What?” I ask.

“There’s more,” Clark says.

“What more could there be?”

“This Rex in the article, it’s not reality. We know that.”

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