“Oh my fucking God.” Leo’s both shocked and delighted, but Emerson doesn’t break character.
Sin laughs at Leo. “I thought you knew this guy. Aren’t you close friends?”
Emerson scoffs. It’s a Leo scoff. He’s never scoffed like that in his life. “Please. It was a knife fight, not a friendship bracelet.”
“You come to this house for dinner every week, Emerson. When were you going to let me in on this?”
“When you proved you weren’t a fool.”
Leo laughs, the cards in his hands shaking. “No way. I don’t believe it. Do Daphne.”
Emerson’s expression softens. He bites at his lip, the rigid posture disappearing. It’s an eerily accurate impression of Daphne when she’s painting.
Leo purses his lips. “Tiernan.”
It’s in the shoulders for Tiernan, and the scowl. That prick walks around with a fight-me attitude, which Emerson of course nails.
“Eva,” says Leo. She’s the sister he’s closest to, I think.
“At dinner or when she’s with you?”
Leo puts down another card, his eyes narrowing with a challenge. “With me.”
Emerson looks at him, expression shifting again. I don’t know this face, but Leo shivers. “Jesus goddamn Christ. How do you do that?”
“Em’s only pretending to be a normal obsessive art collector,” Sin says. “He actually runs off a database. Every time he looks at you, he files it away in his brain so he can use it later.”
“For when he gets drunk and needs a party trick?”
Emerson puts an elbow on the table and leans, and it doesn’t matter that he and Sin are opposites except for their eyes. It doesn’t matter that Emerson’s the one who has panic attacks and Sinclair’s the one who saved him. He is Sinclair.
“This jackass is making it sound like I’m a robot. What he’s trying to say, Leo, is that the social scene is bullshit and some of us have to fake it so that everyone else stays comfortable. It’s not a party trick. And anyway, it’s not like Sinclair here doesn’t study people, too. When he’s not jumping off cliffs, he’s digging for secrets.”
“I’m extremely comfortable right now.” Leo laughs some more. “Do you know everyone’s secrets, too?”
Emerson looks at me.
“Don’t.” He looks too similar when he’s not pretending to be me.
Too late. Emerson’s a mirror. I didn’t know I was holding my cards so protectively, or that I was scowling quite so much.
He looks me in the eye. “Something’s going wrong with the merger.”
Leo looks between the two of us. “What merger?”
I let out a sigh and finish the remaining half of my drink. More alcohol will probably make this better. “Hughes Financial Services acquired my company.”
“Oh?” Leo makes a show of studying his cards. His sister’s engaged to Finn Hughes, so obviously I’ll have to be delicate about it.
“I was happy with the contract.” This is abject bullshit. I didn’t want to sell, hence the superyacht. I went through with it because I needed Bristol to be safe, and she was never going to be safe with me. Not in her apartment. Not at Summit. One more day in the office with her, and I’d never have left. “I’m not happy with the way they’ve executed it.”
“Who’d you sign with?”
“Greg Winthrop and Mitchell Hope. They announced at the Friday meeting that they’re dismantling Summit entirely.” Hot anger fights with the residual sweetness of the drink. If it weren’t for the cards, my hands would be in fists. I don’t want to punch anyone at Emerson’s birthday party. I’m not supposed to punch anyone for another few weeks at minimum. What I want is to work it off in bed. What I want is Bristol. “Blindsided me.”
“I take it those weren’t the original terms?” Somehow, we’re back to Leo already.
“Not as I understood them. Now it’s the spirit of the damn thing versus the letter. I don’t like it. I told my team we’d stay together, and they’re getting siphoned off to other departments.”
Emerson blinks, and he’s himself again. “Have you talked to anyone about it?”
“Like who? Winthrop and Hope?”
“Like your lawyers.”
Sinclair plays his next card. “Legal’s the last resort. You don’t want a big public thing with Hughes.”
“No.” Leo’s wry. “That would be almost as irritating as getting into a public scuffle with us.” He means the Morelli family. I’m not foolish enough to go head-to-head with Hughes in public. I don’t have a death wish, either.
“I don’t know what my next move is,” I admit.
It makes my gut ache to think about screwing over my team. I’ve always been good at business. I haven’t been good at relationships. The people at Summit are the only ones I haven’t driven away, all my former secretaries notwithstanding. Half the reason I keep myself bubble-wrapped in money is for them. It’s dangerous to stay in the same room as a monster with no control, so I’ve practiced. A lot. Now it’s Hughes Financial Services taking it away instead of my own jackass impulses.
Emerson meets my eyes, and he’s being me. I look furious. And also like I’m doing a miserable job hiding it. I’m too drunk to try. That was a serious drink. “Go over their heads. They wanted you. That means you have more leverage than you think.”
Sinclair plays a card. Leo watches through Emerson’s turn, then plays his own card. “He’s right.”
This feels like an odd piece of advice coming from someone who has more in common with the Hugheses than he’ll ever have with us. “Are you fucking with me?”
If I were Emerson, I’d file this look under sincerity. Or maybe he’s just drunk, too. “I don’t fuck around about family businesses.”
I choke on a laugh. “We’re not family.”
Leo rolls his eyes. “You’re as much family as Hughes. And even if you weren’t, I’d say the same thing. Go talk to him directly. I can do it, if you want.”
“No.” I’m too quick with the answer, and probably too blunt. I’m in this guy’s house. He made an offer he didn’t have to make. “I’m the CEO. Nobody should step in before I do.”
If Leo’s angry about this, he doesn’t give any sign. I wonder how much of his reputation, exactly, is manufactured bullshit meant to keep people on their toes. “Winthrop and Hope probably don’t realize who they’re dealing with.”
I let out a laugh that sounds more drunk than I meant it to. “I’m some asshole who made a billion dollars. That’s nothing compared to Hughes Financial Services, let alone Hughes Industries.”
“You have your connections,” he says.
It’s supposed to be a positive, but my stomach does a weird flip. I get that connections are good for business. That doesn’t mean I have to like them. It’s bad enough that I’m sitting here with Emerson and Sinclair, staying too late at a birthday party with days and weeks and years of pent-up anger bubbling under my skin. Having connections and using them means trusting other people, and that is a recipe for getting fucked over.