George levels him with a stare and says in the quietest yet most threatening voice I’ve ever heard, “This is Mrs. King’s car,” he says my name like it has some heavy weight, “and she won’t be walking anywhere. When we’re back, the car shall be here. Please, make sure it is.”
With that, he touches my shoulder, silently ushering me inside. I tilt my head to look at his face because I sure as hell don’t recognize this man. How could I ever think him to be an old gentleman?
Inside, we go through the building like a bulldozer through old walls. George’s presence makes sure of it.
I push open the door with the name ‘Inspector Boris Lebovski’ and find him shoving a big cupcake into his mouth. His eyes go round when he sees us, and the cupcake gets sucked down the wrong pipe.
Through fits of coughing, he cries out, “What are you doing here?” There’s a skinny, tall guy running toward us from the reception desk, but George closes the door shut right in his face. Then he takes a stance right in front of it with his hands interlocked in front of him. I’ve never been happier with my decision to use his help.
“Who the fuck are you?”
“Hello, Mr. Lebovski,” I say as I plant my butt in the chair across from him. “I’m Maeve Wrong.” I deliberately use my maiden name so as not to be associated with Ezra and to keep his name clean.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” he asks, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.
“I’m here on behalf of the less fortunate folks of this city.” I fix the flowy skirt around my knees. “Who would like the King building to be back on track and working.”
“A-a-ah,” he singsongs, a smile spreading over his face. “You’re the woman who was sold for shares.”
I smile without confirming anything, shoving down the desire to smack his face with my foot. There’s a time for revenge, but it’s not now.
“Well, I’ll say to you what I said to your husband. You are fucked.” He starts laughing maniacally.
“Are we?”
Someone knocks on the door, but we all ignore it.
“There’s nothing you can do now.” He keeps laughing. “The wheel is in motion, and it’s just a matter of time when your company will become mine.”
“Hmm,” I hum loudly, digging into my purse. “I’ve got some cool stuff here that might change your mind. Wanna see?”
The tick of his eyes is the only indication that he might be unsettled by my words.
Someone’s body pushes at the other side of the door, and I turn toward the sound. An arm in blue shows up when someone pries it open. With one speedy movement, George smacks the arm, and it quickly retreats back with a loudouch. My loyal Kevin Costner, the bodyguard I didn’t know I needed, pushes the door closed and clicks the lock. Taking a stance with his hands interlocked in front of him, he gives me a small nod. “Apologies for the interruption. The place is crawling with rodents.”
Clearing my throat in attempts to mask a chuckle, I return my attention back to the person who’s holding King Developers as a prisoner.
“What do you have in there?” He’s staring at my lap where I keep the images turned away from him.
“You’re a very photogenic person, Mr. Lebovski,” I say, dramatically admiring one of the pictures. “You should try Hollywood.”
“What do you have there?” His neck moves with a swallow.
“Oh, not much. Just your happy mug visiting one of your girlfriends.” With a wide smile, I place the pictures in front of him. One by one. With every revealed image, his cheeks become paler. When a full carousel is splayed in front of him, he wipes his sweaty forehead with his hand.
“And what? Like you think your own husband doesn’t go to hookers.”
“Tsk-tsk-tsk.” I lean back in my chair. “But it’s not about him, is it? It’s about your wife. How is she, by the way? Did you know I went to school with her younger sister?”
I did not, but he doesn’t know that. His eyes go as wide as saucers.
“We’re actually still friends. I might ask her sister to bring your wife along when she visits me in my new home.” I blink like a debutante. All my lessons of being sweet while delivering deathblows come in handy. “I also wonder how tight that prenup of yours is.” Tapping my finger over my lips, I add, “Will you have a cent left to your name when she divorces you? What do you think, George?”
“Highly unlikely.” George’s being a good sport by feeding into my fake scenario.
“You wouldn’t do that. This is blackmail!” Boris raises his voice, glancing between the two of us, but not enough for anyone behind the closed door to hear it. Which speaks volumes.
“You think?” I pick under my nails, pretending to be bored out of my mind.
