Chapter 4 Gus

"You have a call from Davis Ridgeway," my assistant, Brent, informs me, poking his head into my office. I've told him a thousand times: Just buzz my calls over from your own damn office. But I know he likes to drop in unannounced. It makes him feel powerful, I assume, because nobody else is allowed to.

"Which one?" I look up from my laptop and find Brent peering at me, likely trying to see what I'm up to. Nosy bastard could look at my calendar, but again, he enjoys flaunting how easily he can access me. "The old one or the young one?"

"The young one," Brent confirms, holding back a smirk.

Whether or not he'll ever admit it, Brent thinks I'm hilarious. It's the cynic in him. He can't resist the sound of my mood swings. His cynicism is the reason why he's been my assistant for over twenty years—since the days when I couldn't even afford an assistant. Tens of thousands of people have worked for me, but none compares to Brent: the rare mix of competence and cutting. I like that in an assistant—in anyone, frankly. Nothing bores me more than a sycophant.

"Patch him through," I instruct before I motion for Brent to shut the door.

A moment later, I get on the line with Davis, who proceeds to tell me my stipulation "isn't going to work out, unfortunately." And then the kid has the balls to ask if there's anything else I want.

In other words: Julia Ridgeway isn't interested in me.

Fuck that.

It's exactly what I say to Davis. "Fuck that. If I don't get her, you don't get my company."

He's quiet, which is rare. In our dealings to date, he's always been quick. Clearly, I've gotten under his skin. Perfect. I imagine once he's truly desperate, he'll stop at nothing to convince his sister. I've got leverage for days.

Although, frankly, I'm shocked she's taking this much convincing. The way Julia looked at me when she saw me for the first time was like she was starving and I was the most exquisite slice of prime rib she had ever laid her eyes on—and she was ready to eat me alive.

I would have let her do it in a fucking heartbeat.

"What if I increase the offer?" Davis counters, tone even. "I can't alter the valuation, obviously, but I can sweeten the deal."

"What makes you think I need more money? I don't have to sell FundRight. I'm content to run it for the next forty years."

It's a lie, but the art of war doesn't demand honesty.

Davis lets out a protracted sigh. "You don't know my sister. If you tell her to do something, she immediately puts a stake in the ground and vows to do anything but that. I have no power over her. None. Even if I did, I'm not going to persuade my sister to…"

He trails off because he doesn't have the stomach to say it aloud.

"To fuck me," I fill in—because I certainly have the stomach for it.

I can practically hear Davis cringing on the phone. "Gus, you can have other women," he reminds me needlessly. "I'm willing to bet you don't need to contractually obligate most women to sleep with you."

"I've been clear. I want her," I answer, keeping my tone stern, as usual. "No other women. Her."

"There's no alternative? Nothing else I can offer you?"

"No."

And that's the truth. At this point, I'm so desperate to taste this woman one time, nothing else will ever replace the prospect. I wanted her the moment I first saw her through a sea of people. Flowing blond hair, honey skin, a body that made my breath hitch, and a tongue so sharp she nearly cut me with it.

I'll hate-fuck her until she apologizes—or develops an unbridled addiction for my cock. Either outcome is fine with me.

Davis hums on the other end of the line. Have I broken the pride and joy of the Ridgeway family—and so quickly?

"Fine. I have a plan," Davis announces, the assurance returning to his voice. "In the meantime, you should review the updated contract from our legal team and let me know if you have any issues with it. I'll keep working on Julia."

"Fine."

I end the call without saying goodbye and without revealing the surge of anticipation swelling in me. Apparently the Ridgeway golden boy has a plan, and I sure as hell hope it works.

I turn my attention back to my laptop. There are a thousand things I need to do today—a thousand things more pressing than getting my dick wet—but I don't care. All my business goes to the wayside so I can review the draft of the acquisition contract. Like Davis mentioned, Davenport-Ridgeway's lawyers have added new section since the last time I read it:

The parties agree as follows:

5. CONDITIONS OF ACQUISITION

5.1 Conditions Prior to Commencement of Acquisition Proceedings: The buyer will facilitate the following conditions:

(a) Coordination of one (1) night between the CEO of seller (August Winter) and Julia Ridgeway prior to the end of the current calendar year (31 December)

I re-read the new language, lingering on "one night." Too damn vague. There's no ambiguity about what I want: I want to fuck her. I want to fuck her wildly, beastly, in ways she'll never forget. I want it to be one part revenge and one part curiosity, but mostly I want to ruin her for all other men.

…But I do understand if my motivations are difficult to capture in legal terms.

An hour later, I've conferred with our lawyers. They sounded like they were wondering what evil things they did in a past life to have survived law school and endured decades of overtime hours only to be subjected to my petty, vengeful shit. They've promised to ‘tighten up the language' and ‘reduce the possibility of re-interpretation.' In other words: They're going to make it abundantly clear that I'll get Julia Ridgeway the only way I want her: coming around my cock.

The fantasy lulls me until I'm staring out the window at the sun setting over London. Pinks and orange meet in a soft fade behind the usual cloud cover.

Constance used to love sunsets. It's been a long time since I watched the sunset.

But oddly enough, my mind doesn't stay on Constance. It drifts back to Julia, wondering where she is right now. For all I know, she might be watching the same sunset.

I kind of wish I knew where she was.

The sound of Brent knocking on my doorframe makes me flinch with surprise. He sticks his head in once again. "Need anything?"

"I'm fine."

"All good with Julia?"

I almost freeze when he says her name, but I don't let him see me falter. Brent is the only person with un-tented access to my emails, so it's well within his role to know about my demands. What strikes me, however, is how he asked about her. Not the deal. Not the acquisition. Not Davenport-Ridgeway.

Julia.

"Remains to be seen," I answer succinctly.

"And if she doesn't agree to your terms," he goes on, choosing his words carefully as he slips into my office and closes the door, "are you really going to tank the deal?"

Concern? Interesting. It's my turn to choose my words carefully before I say, "Brent, you've been my assistant for twenty years."

"True."

"You got enough stock when we IPOed to never work again. Aside from that, I pay you well. An acquisition isn't going to change your financial outlook."

"All true."

"You're forty-five. You could have retired fifteen years ago. Why do you care what happens to the deal?"

Not missing a beat, Brent raises both shoulders. "It's about time you sold, Gus. If the deal goes through, I'm going to be drunk on a private beach this time next year. You'll be jobless too, and I hope you'll be doing the same—or at least drinking a coffee in subzero temperatures from your Montana compound," he concedes.

"I prefer the term ‘cabin.'"

"Either way, it's time for you to do whatever you want. You've spent all your adult life in an office. You've earned a break."

"So if I'm hearing you correctly," I clarify, leaning back in my chair and crossing my arms, "you want the deal to go through because you think I should retire."

"Not retire. Just do something different. Something new."

Brent's expression has taken on a subtle, earnest quality that I don't particularly care for. It's a knowing stare—and I hate the idea of anyone assuming they know me.

"What have I said about looking through my files unnecessarily?" I inquire, keeping my tone low and languid—intimidating as hell.

"That you would put a hit out on me if I ever did it again," he replies, holding up both hands. "Apologies. If you really must kill me tonight, I'd like to go in my sleep."

"Duly noted."

He gives me a polite nod. So British. "Well, I'll be in my office. Do you want me to order your dinner?"

"I'll do it myself."

Brent leaves and my gaze drifts back to my laptop. Once his footsteps fade down the hallway, I navigate to a file I thought I had hidden well enough in my cloud drive: Untitled: Reflections on Crowdsourcing Your Way to Billions. Yeah, the title is shit, but it's a work in progress.

Brent is right: If all goes according to plan, I'll be effectively jobless when the acquisition closes.

Me. Jobless.

For the record, I've never been unemployed, not for two decades.

Twenty-one years ago, I was fresh out of college and sitting on my bed in my flat, crying—like a pathetic little bitch. After four years together at MIT, Constance had just broken up with me. Mercilessly. It didn't matter that I gave up everything to move to London for her. My job, my car, grandma and grandpa's old mobile home—everything. I gave it all up for her, and she dumped me on sight.

That night, I scrounged up whatever cash I had, left my flat with no plan whatsoever, and scored enough coke to put me on a bender for the next eight days. Somehow, between blearily seducing strangers and doing shit I would regret for years to come, I managed to write an idea in a notebook. Just two sentences, nothing earth-shattering. Still, that idea made me a billionaire by the time I was twenty-four.

The last twenty years have been a whirlwind. Countless rounds of funding, unprecedented growth, and the creation of a veritable financial empire. And me? I'm a fucking legend.

Legends leave behind a legacy. Legacies don't die. I can't think of a better legacy than a book in the vein of Malcolm Gladwell, Machiavelli, and even Sun Tzu.

As the sunset beyond my windows casts a final splash of pink and orange over the city, I write.

My book is the first thing to distract me from thoughts of Julia Ridgeway since I first saw her.