**Clad**
I am drowsy. Officially.
I didn't get a wink of sleep the entire day, and now, I've dozed off near my PC. My body finally succumbed to exhaustion, but my moment of peace is short-lived. A buzzing sound from my nightstand irritates the hell out of me, dragging me back to consciousness.
With a groggy scowl, I grab my phone, answering the call.
"What?" I mumble, irritation seeping into my tone. If you ever want to catch me with my feelings on full display, call me when I'm like this—when it's my time to unwind.
"It's twenty minutes before, Clad. Wake up." Max's voice filters through the receiver.
"So?" I ask, still not seeing how this concerns me.
"So get yourself to the Moores. We need the investment."
I groan, already done with this conversation before it even begins. "Max, I'm not in need of money. Cancel the meeting. I'm tired." Not even a lie—I truly am.
"Clad, please. Don't make this hard for me." He sounds genuinely desperate. Of course he gets like this, we may not need the investment but we need something that comes along with the investment, credibility.
With a sigh, I push myself upright. "You should be the one handling these things. I can't stand them."
"You're the boss," he retorts.
"And you're the one with the relevant degree and the patience for this nonsense. Talk to you later." I end the call but still grab my phone, forcing myself to move.
Within ten minutes, I'm dressed. I stand before the mirror, eyeing my reflection. "Perfect fit," I muse.
Armani never disappoints. The sharp lines and fine tailoring bring out my best features as if the suit was crafted solely to worship my body. Satisfied, I roll my shoulders back and step out, ready to face the Moores.
Leaving my hotel room is a smooth affair. No one disturbs me—not that they would, considering we rented out the rest of the floor. Mr. Moore had done his best to secure a decent suite, but I needed my own space, and I don't compromise on that.
I make my way to the underground parking lot, where my true solace awaits—my Porsche 911. I can go anywhere in the world, and this car will always be my choice. Owning a few back home is a given, but for a meeting as troublesome as this, renting was the easiest option.
I slide into the driver's seat in one fluid motion, shutting the door with a satisfying click. A bottle of cheap wine wrapped in pink ribbons rests on the passenger seat. I glance at it, unimpressed. There's no familiar branding. Max must have really worked hard to dig up something this unknown. Perfect. It fits exactly what I wanted—cheap and forgettable.
I start the engine, and a deep, guttural roar fills the underground parking. The sound reverberates against the walls, sending a rush of adrenaline through my veins. If nothing else, at least this car makes tonight bearable.
For a moment, I let myself savor the hum of the engine beneath my fingertips. This car could have been my first love—would have been, if someone hadn't already taken that spot in high school.
My grip tightens around the wheel as an old memory resurfaces, unbidden. Harley.
The bliss I could have had if her scars hadn't cut so deep.
What the hell am I thinking? I'm driving my favorite car, and I'm wasting time reminiscing about a high school lover? A traitor. That's what I am. I've betrayed my car.
I exhale sharply and mutter, "Sorry, love."
If I weren't driving, I might have stroked the dashboard in apology. Instead, I refocus, weaving effortlessly through the city streets.
In under ten minutes, I arrive at Luxe & Ivy.
The moment I step out of the car, I feel it.
Eyes.
Men wear expressions of envy, ones they'll likely carry for the rest of their lives, knowing they'll never amount to a tenth of what I am. The women—let's not even start with them. Cat-like stares, subtle batting of lashes, shallow attempts to draw attention.
I ignore them.
Seeing the valet, I toss him my keys. "Thanks."
He bows and slides into the driver's seat, pulling away. I watch until my car disappears around the building's corner before dragging my gaze back to the present.
With my usual poker face in place, I stride into the restaurant.
Immediately, a woman approaches. "Good evening, sir. Do you have a reservation?"
"No, but I'm here for a meeting. Mr. Moore?"
She nods. I wait.
From the subtle movement behind her and the discreet glances exchanged among staff, I know what's happening. They're running a background check. It's expected in places like this. Annoying.
A minute later, she must have found what she needed because her smile broadens. "This way. Mr. Moore and his family are waiting for you."
I give her a slight nod and follow.
She leads me to a private dining room—the kind that screams "Look at me, I'm high society" nonsense. Mr. Moore must be trying his best to impress, though he fails.
"We're here. Please enjoy your evening."
She bows lightly before stepping aside. I return a nod and a polite smile before walking in.
"Mr. Storm!"
Mr. Moore's booming voice greets me the moment I step inside. He rises from his seat at the head of the table, his outdated yet expensive suit emphasizing his attempt at elegance.
I offer a smooth smile. "Good evening. I apologize if I kept you waiting."
He waves a hand. "No worries! You made it just in time to order." He laughs at his own joke.
I humor him with a slight chuckle, though internally, I roll my eyes.
"Come in, come in." He gestures.
I hand the bottle of wine to a waiter before scanning the table. Two women are seated—one older, the other younger. But the face I wanted to see tonight? Not here.
Unconsciously, my fingers graze the small, sleek purse in my pocket. My voice is deceptively casual as I ask, "Where's my escort? Harley, I presume?"
Silence.
Only wide eyes stare back at me—like they're just now remembering she exists. What the hell?