Page 5 of Fated By Fire
“You tell me.” I hold his gaze. “They barely fought back. It’s like they wanted this.”
“Maybe they’re just not as smart as you give them credit for.”
“Or maybe it’s a diversion,” I say, leaning forward. “Distract us with a shiny acquisition while the Syndicate moves something bigger under our noses.”
Dorian takes a slow sip of his whiskey, his expression unreadable.
Before I can press him further, my PA strides in, not a hair out of place, as usual. At 45, she’s the only human who’s survived working for me for more than a year—mostly because she never flinches, even when my scales start to show.
“Morning, Dorian,” she says, not breaking stride as she sets a fresh stack of files on my desk.
“Sloane,” he nods, raising his glass.
“We need to finalize the hires,” she says, her tone brisk. “HR’s interviewing the junior archivist this morning.”
“Fine,” I say, waving a hand. “Let them handle it.”
“They need approval for the budget.”
“Then ask Dorian.”
My brother raises an eyebrow. “Me?”
“You’re the one who’s been MIA,” I snap. “Might as well make yourself useful.”
He shrugs, draining the last of his whiskey. “Sure. I’ll play babysitter.”
Sloane hesitates, then nods. “I’ll let them know.”
As she leaves, I turn back to Dorian. “We’re not done here.”
“Aren’t we?” He sets the tumbler down with a clink. “You’ve got your theories; I’ve got my whiskey. Let’s call it even.”
I watch him go, the tension in my shoulders tightening. Something’s going on with him, and I don’t like not knowing what it is.
I push the thought aside and focus on the files in front of me. NyxCorp’s financials are a mess, but there’s a pattern if you look hard enough. Payments funneled to shell companies, offshoreaccounts, and one name that keeps popping up: Blackthorn Consulting.
“Blackthorn,” I mutter, flipping through the pages. “Who the hell are you?”
Sloane returns with a fresh pot of coffee, setting it on the desk without a word.
“Anything on Blackthorn?” I ask.
She shakes her head. “Not yet. They’re a ghost—no physical address, no records, nothing.”
“Keep digging.”
“On it.”
I rub the back of my neck, the weight of the day already settling in. The board will want an update, and I’m not looking forward to telling them I’m not happy with this new deal. How do I explain that I’m troubled by the merger simply because there’s nothing wrong with it?
The phone on my desk buzzes, and I press the intercom button. “Sloane?” I ask.
“Just a reminder that you need to be in the boardroom in five,” she says.
“Got it,” I say, though I don’t really need a reminder. It’s been on my mind since I arrived at 5 am.
I push myself to my feet and head for the elevator, mentally chewing over the events of the day. My reflection in the mirror at the back gives no hint of the roiling in my mind—amber-eyed, dark-haired, rough-hewn—I look the same as usual. Although the stubble should go; Dorian is right. I could use some sleep.
