I pull out my laptop and click the power button, then grab the bottle of Cab from the fridge and pour myself a healthy glass.
It’s been a long fucking day already and I have at least two hours of work to do before I can crash.
My first order of business? Finding someone else to manage the disaster next door.
Because there’s no way I can run a hedge fund and chaperone Bennett Steele simultaneously. And I’ve worked way too hard for this position to let it slip away over some short-sighted babysitting gig my father dreamed up.
Three clicks later, I’ve solved the dilemma. Nothing a little of daddy’s money can’t fix. By seven AM tomorrow, Bennett will have two bodyguards ready and willing to cover my warden duties. They’ll keep me posted on his activities and I’ll only need to show up when absolutely necessary. Daddy will be none the wiser and I can manage the fund from Driftwood Cove for a bit.
Satisfied, I swirl the wine, dark red streaks running down the inside of the cheap glass.
Yes, this is the perfect plan.
Not even Bennett Steele can fuck this up.
Eight hours later, I’m sitting in the exact same spot at the kitchen table preparing for a Zoom call with investors. Tipping my head side to side, I smooth a stray hair back into the tight bun and check my reflection. The morning light’s decent enough and the pile of books my laptop sits on provides a decent angle. On camera, I’m all business, in a teal silk blouse, a full face of makeup, and my diamond studs. The table conceals my satin pj shorts and cream fuzzy socks, one of the few perks of working from home.
Buzz, buzz.
I tap ‘connect’ on the screen and smile. “Morning, gentlemen. I’ll keep this tight —performance, drivers, positioning, then Q&A.”
I’m deep into my spreadsheet when a notification pops up on screen:This is Knox. We’re on site.
Right. The bodyguards I hired last night to take care of my new babysitting side gig.
Nodding my head at the screen, I type out a quick response:Keep me posted
“Bottom line: is this repeatable?” The lead investor narrows his eyes and stares directly at the camera, jolting me back to reality. His fingers thrum a one-two beat on a yellow legal pad.
“Absolutely.” I nod, assuring him. “Because it comes from rules, not vibes.”
Ma’am. We have a situation.
The notification dings in the top right of my screen.
For fuck’s sake.
I X out of the message, trying hard to focus on the meeting and stay on track.
“Are you worried about volatility?” Another investor, the short guy on the left, asks.
I don’t hesitate. “Volatility is fine. Unmanaged volatility is not.”
Bang, bang, bang.
The door behind me rattles so hard the table shakes, my laptop vibrating with each pound.
I ignore the loud noise and forge ahead. “We’re protecting downside?—”
Ding-dong.
The doorbell rings, insistent. Once, twice, three times.
I don’t flinch. “Without paying for unnecessary insurance.”
Ding-dong, ding-dong, ding-dong.
Good god. Whoever’s there isn’t going away.