5

Victoria stacked the Miller’s haul on the table. Insides jittery, chest tight, her hands were steady as she gripped the counter. She was making the right call. This was the only course of action.

Nerves were normal.

Her phone whistled, startling her out of the internal pep talk. The world didn’t stop because she was facing the biggest moment of her life. Money was pushed, clients were irritated, and business kept moving. Sixteen new emails since she’d checked this morning, all from her VIP list. She may not be CEO, but Livingston couldn’t function without her.

She shook her head and tapped the first message from Jeff Blevins, the ever-present thorn in her side. Account execs weren’t supposed to keep tabs on each other’s client lists, but Jeff had been trying to poach from her for the last three years—ever since Warren had picked him for a prestigious leadership summit where all the major players went to schmooze and pat themselves on the back.

Of course it hadn’t been Victoria. They couldn’t possibly risk having the team accuse him of nepotism. Her numbers drew enough speculation as it was. Jeff was the obvious choice.

And here he was, emailing her before business hours about one of her clients. Heard this through the grapevine, he wrote. Thought you’d want to know.

How altruistic.

Gratuzi and McCloud, her biggest account, had decided to jump ship. Three years she’d spent building a relationship, nurturing a meager one-off service fee into insane profit margins, and now? They were citing customer service issues as their reason to withdraw from their arrangement and go with Livingston’s biggest competitor.

Customer service? Code for bullshit. Victoria could read the red between the lines.

It had absolutely nothing to do with the fact that Warren insisted he handle the last round of negotiations. Or how he’d inexplicably transferred them to a subpar service team where more than half the reps were in their first three months of employment and knew nothing about the systems.

Livingston had already lost two of its most lucrative accounts this month, and before Warren had dropped the surprise-you’ve-been-ousted baby bomb, she hadn’t blamed them for leaving. Big fish always smelled trouble first.

They’d been able to hide the departures, at least temporarily, from the shareholders, mostly because Victoria knew how to smooth the rough edges of desperation.

There wasn’t a chance in hell the façade would stay intact for another quarter. Also, it wasn’t a good look that Jeff had found out about this before she did.

“Shit,” she said, shooting off a few quick responses to frazzled account execs that she would circle back after the weekend with a fresh game plan.

She wouldn’t have to make up for Warren’s slack for much longer. Not if her plan worked.

As the last email sent, an alert for a calendar change popped up on the screen. This can’t be happening, she thought, reviewing the notification. Everyone wanted to be wildly unpredictable today, it seemed. Wasn’t like she had a murder to execute.

Victoria pulled up her call log and tapped Warren’s name. No answer, which was odd. For all his ineptitude, Warren didn’t miss her calls, especially when he was supposed to be free until his dinner meeting. She hung up and tried again. This time, the call went straight to voicemail.

Was Warren ignoring her?

Well, that wasn’t going to fly. She swiped to her contacts and hit the main line.

“Livingston Corporation, how may I direct your call?” Warren’s secretary, Judy, a comely woman with a small gap between her front two teeth and a penchant for ramen, crooned into the speaker.

“Hi, Judy, it’s Victoria.”

“Mrs. Tate, how are you?”

“I’m well, thanks,” she said, diving straight to the point. “My calendar just updated and I was hoping you could confirm the change. What’s going on with the Harvest Gala? The RSVP was for next weekend.”

“It was supposed to be,” she said.

“What happened?”

“Oh, it’s awful,” Judy said, frown evident in her voice. “Margaret’s mother has taken a turn for the worse, I’m afraid. They were hoping for good news, but her last test results weren’t great. So they bumped it to tonight in case Margaret needs to make arrangements.”

Margaret Connors, the Kent Wood socialite. She and her ridiculous husband, Barnaby lived in a mega-mansion on a private cul-de-sac at the other, filthy richer, end of Kent Wood Manor. For anyone else, rescheduling an event of such magnitude with no notice would be impossible, but for Margaret Connors, the proud stay-at-home wife who ultimately controlled Barnaby’s wallet, the city would move Christmas to June if it meant the cash flow continued.

“I didn’t know her mother was still alive,” Victoria said. “She’s never come up in conversation.”

“Well, she won’t be for much longer,” Judy said before immediately backtracking. “I apologize, Mrs. Tate, that was incredibly crass of me.”

“No worries,” she said. Neither will Warren.

Judy’s voice lowered to a conspiratorial level. Victoria could almost see her twirling a strand of her copper waves as she divulged the news. “One of their housekeepers told me she has cancer. Stage four, in her pancreas. Terrible, right? Margaret is completely torn up. She wanted to fly her up from Long Island, but she’s too weak to be moved, so they’ve hired the entire staff of a private practice to give her round-the-clock care. Margaret’s taking the jet down first thing in the morning and plans to stay, but she refused to cancel the Gala. So it’s tonight. All of that stays between us birds, of course. I’m not usually one to gossip.”

Unless there was another person within earshot. “What time does the Gala start?” she asked.

“Seven o’clock at the Kent Wood Mansion.”

“Does Warren know?”

Judy paused. “Mr. Tate has been in meetings for most of the morning, but I’ll check with him before he leaves for lunch.”

“He’s leaving for lunch?” she asked dubiously. Warren ordered from Lorenzo’s on Fridays. Every Friday, without fail. Grilled branzino with rice pilaf and two cannoli. His only cheat meal of the week.

“He had me make a reservation for two at the new Thai place downtown.”

“Did he say with who?”

The keyboard clacked through the speaker. Another pause. “He didn’t. He’s on a conference call with Hobart’s CFO, but I’m sure he wouldn’t mind if I patched you in.”

“That’s all right, thanks for letting me know,” Victoria said.

“Of course. Happy to help. I’m here until four if you need anything else.”

The call ended, and Victoria stared blankly at the rolls of plastic and painter’s tape. A reservation for two. Warren would never choose a Thai place. Vanilla was spicy to her husband.

So who was he dining with?