Everyone wanted the CEO’s attention at singles night until she crossed the room and chose me

The morning sun hit the gold-leaf ceiling of the Mercer & Holloway lobby like an interrogation lamp.

Flashbulbs popped in blinding, deafening bursts. Reporters from Bloomberg, the *Wall Street Journal*, and the local Chicago networks were packed behind velvet stanchions like hungry hounds smelling fresh meat. Security guards in earpieces formed a human barricade as Vivian and I stepped out of the express elevator side by side.

She looked immaculate. An ivory double-breasted suit, diamond studs, hair swept back into an uncompromising chignon. Not a single trace remained of the breathless woman who had pinned me against the glass of the thirty-fifth floor at two in the morning. She was back in general mode.

And I wore the armor of an equal partner: a charcoal three-piece suit, a sharp blue tie, and a face that revealed absolutely nothing about the fact that I had slept two hours and spent the rest of the night running financial forensic models on my laptop.

"Smile, Leo," she murmured under her breath, her hand lightly resting on my forearm as we approached the bank of microphones. "The market responds to confidence, not caution."

"I am smiling," I murmured back. "I'm just wondering which one of us is wearing the target today."

"Mercer & Holloway has survived three recessions, an attempted hostile acquisition, and the disgraceful misconduct of former leadership," Vivian began, her voice projecting with crisp, crystalline authority into the microphones. "Today, we announce a complete restructuring. Our private equity wing is merging directly with Holloway Strategic. Effective immediately, Leo Sterling will assume the role of Executive Vice President and Chief Operating Partner, holding a twenty-percent active voting interest."

A sea of hands shot up instantly. Shouted questions echoed off the Italian marble walls.

"Ms. Holloway! What about the federal inquiry into the Cayman accounts?"

"Leo, is it true you were handpicked at a luxury singles event just weeks before the takeover?"

"Did the board approve this bypass of traditional succession protocols?"

Vivian raised a single, diamond-ringed hand, cutting through the chaos like a knife through silk. "Mr. Sterling was brought in because his independent risk assessment proved that Julian Vance was embezzling assets to suppress shareholder yields. His loyalty is to the balance sheet. And my loyalty is to the future of this firm."

Before another question could be shouted, a sharp, mocking voice sliced through the rear of the press pool.

"A touching fairy tale, Vivian. Really, you should consider writing fiction."

The reporters parted immediately, turning their cameras toward the newcomer.

Walking slowly through the glass revolving doors was a tall man in his late forties, wearing a tailored navy coat over an unbuttoned shirt. He had the same razor-sharp cheekbones as Vivian, but his eyes were sunken, dark with cynical amusement.

Damon Mercer. Vivian’s estranged half-brother and the exiled heir to the Mercer family trust.

Beside me, Vivian’s fingers tightened on my sleeve—just a fraction of an inch, but enough for me to know this was the one variable she hadn't modeled in her spreadsheets.

"Damon," Vivian said smoothly, though the temperature in the room plummeted ten degrees. "You're trespassing on private corporate property. Security will escort you out."

"Call them," Damon said, stopping five feet from the press line and grinning at the sea of flashing cameras. "Let them arrest me in front of CNBC. Tell the world that your golden boy partner here is nothing more than a scapegoat brought in to wash forty million dollars of frozen cartel money through the Zurich branch."

The room erupted. Cameramen shoved forward, boom mics dipping low.

"Julian wasn't acting alone, little sister," Damon continued, his voice ringing across the marble foyer. "Julian was setting up the pipeline. But the accounts were opened in Leo Sterling's father’s old brokerage firm twenty years ago. Look at the paper trail! He isn't your savior, Vivian. He's the son of the architect who built the vault!"

The press descended into pure pandemonium. Vivian didn't look at Damon.

She turned her head slowly, her cold, searching gaze locking onto mine.