“A trial run within a trial run,” I say slowly, tasting the idea. I’m a little skeptical, but I guess it wouldn’t hurt to fool around a little. I can always call game over if I’m feeling underwhelmed.

“Exactly. Just testing the waters. We can pretend we’re back in high school or something.”

I take a long sip of my drink, considering. Then I reply, “I’ll think about it.”

Chapter Five

Noah

Game on.

Chapter Six

Olivia

Oh, joy. The renowned marketing firm of Wesson, Burke and Barsol has sent a vulture. And for some godforsaken reason, our board of directors agreed to let him blow hot air through his yellowing teeth for an hour and call it a “negotiations meeting.”

Tate & Cane has been rivals with WBB from day one. So, naturally, its CEO started salivating as soon as he smelled blood. Officially, the vulture is an “acquisitions representative,” but the formality of that title is just a smoke screen. He’s here to try to pick the carcass before it’s even stopped moving.

Holding back an aggravated sigh, I shift in my seat at the conference table. I don’t have time for this bullshit; I have an entire company to rehabilitate. “Meeting with potential buyers” is about as far down my to-do list as it gets. Especially since I have no idea what this jerk is even doing here, other than wasting everyone’s time and sending my blood pressure through the roof. It’ll be ninety days—no, eighty-six now—until the board even decides whether they want to sell Tate & Cane, let alone who they’ll sell it to.

Maybe all this stress is just making me hysterical, but I can’t keep my mouth from twitching at the sight of the rep’s hair. He has, without a doubt, one of the greasiest, scraggliest, saddest comb-overs I’ve ever seen. And I’ve been part of the elite corporate world since I was old enough to hold Dad’s hand at company dinners. Trust me, I know my bad comb-overs.

How appropriate . . . a bald vulture. Maybe I should check his hands for talons. I take a sip of coffee just to hide my smirk.

Dad clears his throat to interrupt the rep’s rambling. “Excuse me, Mr. Valmont, but I’d just like to clarify a few points.”

The rep blinks a few times, as if he’s forgotten that there were other people in the room. “Yes, Mr. Chairman?”

“Your purchase offer seems very low. Our company’s total value has been estimated at over twice this figure. And your planned policy changes are quite extensive.” Dad peers over his glasses at his copy of WBB’s proposal. “Not to mention the universal layoffs—surely you don’t have to fire all of our current employees?”

“Freshly acquired companies always undergo some restructuring.” The rep adjusts his tie. “It’s standard industry practice, as I’m sure you already know. Buyers have to make sure that their new asset fits into their, ah . . . their corporate culture.”

“Of course,” Dad says. “Just making sure the board understands.”

Oh yeah, the board understands, all right. Nobody sitting at the conference table has even the trace of a smile.

I steal a glance at Noah, who’s sitting just to my left. He looks absolutely miserable—brow furrowed, lips pressed tight, shoulders tensed around his ears. His body language is shocking, especially for a man who’s normally as cool as a cucumber.

A pang of sympathy tightens my chest. I feel the unexpected urge to reach out and take Noah’s hand. It’s gone as quickly as it comes, but the underlying ache remains. God knows I’m not his biggest fan, but with potential buyers in the room, my choice is a no-brainer. Of course I’ll stand firm with Noah. After all, the enemy of my enemy is my friend.

Except Noah isn’t just the enemy of my enemy. We really are on the exact same side here. We’re both doing this for the same reasons—for our fathers, our futures, for all the people who depend on T&C’s jobs to feed their families. And we stand to lose the same high stakes. I know Noah won’t give up without a fight.

The ache in my chest deepens, softens into something that feels almost like loyalty. Solidarity.

Noah’s eyes flick over to mine; he must have sensed my gaze on him. As subtly as I can, I incline my head and give him a small, tight-lipped smile. I don’t want the vulture or even Dad to see what I’m doing. This message is meant only for the two of us.

Don’t worry. We’re going to outsmart these fuckers. I swear on our mothers’ graves, we’ll win.

The vulture gets up from his chair with a creak. Noah looks back at him, breaking our brief connection.

“My employers urge you to consider committing to this sale as soon as possible,” Valmont says. “Our offer is quite generous, and it won’t be on the table indefinitely.”

“We’ll be sure to keep WBB in mind if we ever decide to sell,” Dad replies smoothly, ignoring the man’s limp-dicked attempt at a threat. “Thank you for coming to visit us today.”

I give a tiny mental cheer. Hell yeah! Dad said if, not when. Small victories.

The rep doesn’t look impressed by Dad’s carefully neutral non-smile. Probably because he knows that “we’ll keep you in mind” is just a polite translation of “go piss up a rope.” But what did WBB expect, trying to sneak in ahead of the competition like this?

The meeting is adjourned. Dad excuses himself—probably to wash up after shaking the rep’s slimy hand. As I head back toward my office, Noah catches up with me in the hall.