"Your job was to make him fall in love with you. And then, once his guard is down, he will propose marriage." Raphael’s voice was smooth. He rested his elbow lazily on the table.
Sharona let out a low chuckle. "Look, gentlemen, I have been dealing with men for a long time. Bankers, billionaires, generals, heirs—you name it. I know how your minds work. I can identify the type within minutes of spending time with them. Your boy...is afraid of commitment. It’s not about me. It’s about him. Did something happen to him?"
"I have no idea," Tom said. His fingers drummed against the wood of the booth. "The only person who would know is his grandfather. So what do we do?"
"Manipulate him into hurrying things along." She picked up her bag, a black clutch. Rising to her feet, she added with deceptive nonchalance, "Let him feel like time isn’t on his side." She adjusted her dress and glanced back over her shoulder, her eyes sharp as knives. "One more thing—are you sure Sylvia can hold her own? She seems... fickle."
The mention of Sylvia—the second pawn in their little scheme—made Tom’s jaw tighten. "I’ll make sure she does." Sylvia was necessary, but barely trustworthy, and he knew it. Still, his pride wouldn’t let Sharona see the doubt gnawing at him.
He sighed heavily as she strutted away. Tom’s gaze lingered after her. "How am I supposed to manipulate a man that doesn’t listen?" The frustration cracked through his voice.
"I don’t know," Rapahel said with a shrug, sipping his whiskey. "He is your ’son’, not mine. Who—or what—does he like that you can use against him?"
Everyone had a weakness.
"His sister, his mother..." Tom’s voice trailed. Then, like a storm cloud breaking to reveal sudden lightning, his face lit up. "What if his mother is dying?" His tone carried an unnerving satisfaction.
Raphael groaned and rubbed his forehead as if the suggestion physically pained him. "I don’t even want to know what’s going on in your head right now." He leaned back in his chair, exhaling sharply. "Honestly, Tom, stop talking before I become a witness. I want plausible deniability if all of this goes to shit."
Tom chuckled. "You’re right. Too extreme." He waved his hand dismissively. He leaned forward, lowering his voice into a conspiratorial murmur. "But what if I raised concerns with his European investors on his new project? Money talks, Raphael. And I’m sure Winn would do anything to keep their trust—including rushing into a marriage if he thought it stabilized his image."
Raphael arched a brow. "And how do you plan on doing that?"
Tom smirked. "Do you think it is too late for a story to break tomorrow if I give them information tonight?" The quiet confidence in his tone was chilling.
Raphael tilted his head, considering, then shrugged. "I can help smooth things along for you. Perks of being your father-in-law’s lawyer’s assistant." His lips quirked in a half-smile.
"Thank you, Raphael. Truly." Tom stood, smoothing his jacket. "I’ve got to go cozy up to the family." He left the bar with the determined stride of a man who believed he’d finally seized the leverage he needed.
The next morning, Reese arrived at Winn’s door with a folded copy of the day’s newspaper tucked under his arm.
He was led in by the house staff. The faint scent of coffee lingered in the air. As he stepped into the open-plan kitchen, he found Sylvia already perched on a stool at the island. She was dressed too perfectly for that hour of the morning—silk robe cinched at the waist, hair falling in glossy waves, a cup of coffee in hand.
"Good morning, Miss Kane." Reese’s reply was curt, all business. His posture was military-straight. "I’d like to see the boss."
"The boss is taking a shower. It’s still 7a.m.," she teased, twirling her spoon slowly in her cup. "Have some coffee with me."
"I’d rather not, Miss Kane. Thanks for the offer."
Sylvia’s lips curled in mild annoyance. "So stoic," she muttered under her breath, leaning back slightly. Her eyes flicked over him. "Coffee won’t kill you, you know."
Reese didn’t take the bait. He stood, the newspaper gripped tight in his hands, his wrist locked in a rigid stance in front of him.
"I’ll go tell him to hurry up." Sylvia’s sigh was that of irritation. She rose gracefully, robe sliding against her curves and sauntered down the hall toward Winn’s room.
Inside, Winn was already dressed, his tie knotted neatly. He stood before the mirror, spritzing the final mist of fragrance on his collar when the door opened.
"Syl?" he asked, glancing at her reflection. "What’s up?"
"Reese is here," she said lightly.
"Reese? Why? It’s still seven a.m. I haven’t even had breakfast yet." Winn frowned, setting the cologne bottle down with a muted clink.
Sylvia shrugged, a delicate roll of her shoulders, and glided back out.
Adjusting his watch and picking up his leather bag, Winn stepped out of the bedroom and into the hall where Reese waited.
"Good morning, boss."
"Reese. There are only two reasons you’d be here so early: either there’s fire on the mountain... or you desperately need a girlfriend."
Reese gave the faintest smile. "There is fire on the mountain, sir."
Winn pinched the bridge of his nose, the beginnings of a headache already gnawing behind his eyes. "Can I at least have coffee first?"
"I’m afraid not, sir." Reese’s reply carried the weight of urgency.
Sylvia, still perched at the island, leaned forward, curiosity gleaming in her eyes. "What’s going on?" she asked.
Reese stepped forward, extending the crisp newspaper. Winn took it, his fingers tightening the fold, and then his eyes locked on the headline in bold print: European Investors Pick Unstable Kane Over Evans.
A muscle in his jaw ticked. He skimmed the article, every line slicing deeper into his composure. The reporter detailed how the investors had chosen him—Winn Kane—over Evans, painting Evans as the safer, family-oriented candidate, "rooted in society." Winn, on the other hand, was framed as reckless, unstable. ɴᴇᴡ ɴᴏᴠᴇʟ ᴄʜᴀᴘᴛᴇʀs ᴀʀᴇ ᴘᴜʙʟɪsʜᴇᴅ ᴏɴ novel⚑fire.net