The waitress brings us another round of drinks. We're sitting at Cipriani's, and the broker in front of me takes a good, long look at the waitress' ass as she walks away, and then he continues his rant. He's been bragging about his firm's latest client for the last twenty minutes.

He's one of those old money types. His money's been handed to him from his father, and his father's father, and on, and on. It's a legacy that probably began when his family came over from the fucking Mayflower or something. You get the point. This guy's never known what it's like to have one foot dangling just above the gutter, or to claw your way to the top out of necessity.

It almost makes me smile. I don't care how much money I've made, having that knowledge of desperation simmering just below the surface never goes away, and it gives me an advantage against the competition. It brings out the blood-thirsty shark in me. Always.

"The IPO for my new client will be offered next week," he continues, "and the firm's going to make more money than it knows what to fucking do with."

"We'll see," I say, taking a sip of my drink. I honestly don't give a fuck about whatever new client he's waving in my face. I don't give a fuck about the IPO. My mind is all over the place, but it always returns to two things: Natalie and Sloane.

"There's no wait and see," he replies.

"I just mean that we'll see if the public wants to invest," I say, trying not to yawn. I've heard these kinds of predictions a million times, and these fucking things don't always work out as planned.

"Oh they'll want to invest," he continues, and then changes the subject. "What about that waitress, huh? That ass is something else."

I nod, just to humor him. She's okay, but honestly, her ass doesn't compare to Natalie's. But he's fixated, like a dog drooling over a steak, and who am I to burst his bubble?

"Yeah, nice."

"I'd like to grab two big handfuls," he says, a grin forming on his face.

I bet you would. Good luck with that. With the gold band on your finger, your receding hairline, and that gut protruding over your belt buckle, my guess is you don't have a chance in hell, I think to myself. But I don't say anything. Instead I smile. Schmuck.

Just then, my phone vibrates in my pocket. I take it out and look at the incoming number.

Shit. "Excuse me," I say, "I need to take this call."

"No problem, buddy," he responds, and smiles, "I'll just continue to take in the sweet, sweet view."

I push my chair out and stand up from the table, quickly walking outside. I bring the phone to my ear and answer.

"Linda?"

"It took you long enough to answer."

"I was—" I begin to say, but she cuts me off.

"You're not at your office; so let me guess … you booked a discrete room at the Carlyle for you and maybe a young intern of yours. You plied her with drinks, flashed your money and influence, and when your phone rang just now, you were taking your mouth off her tits?"

"So, that's what you think of me?" I ask, a smile forming on my lips. Two can play this game. "Give me a little more credit. I was taking my mouth off her pussy, not her tits."

"You disgust me."

"So, how can I help you today?" I ask, cutting to the chase. Hanging on the phone and cracking jokes with Linda isn't high on my list of priorities today. "Were you calling just to inquire about my sex life?"

"I don't need to call you to find out about that, Drake. You're an open book."

"Is that so?"

"I know all about what happened between you, and Natalie, and Sloane," she says in a chilled tone.

"Well, aren't you the super sleuth," I say, trying to play it casual. But my brain is cranking in overdrive. How did she find out? Is she tracking me? Is someone tracking Sloane and Natalie? I make a mental note to get to the bottom of that.

"This isn't a joke."

"Of course not. So, shall I go ahead and give you an award for being so fucking astute now, or do we wait?"

"Go ahead and laugh, Drake, but consider for a moment what this can do to your reputation," she hisses into the phone, sounding exactly like a snake coiled and ready to strike.

"My reputation?"

"I won't hesitate to leak this to the media."

Now the fangs are coming out.

She continues, "And this sort of scandal would … ruin you," she drags the word 'ruin' out for emphasis.

"Unless?" I ask, because it's clear that there's an 'unless' lurking under the surface and that she wants something.

"Good. Now you understand," she says, and I can almost hear her face contort into a smile. Can snakes smile? I wonder. "Unless you remove your backing from Dirty Lil' Angels."

"I can't do that," I snap back. There's no fucking way I'm going to allow her to dictate my investments.

"Remove your backing or every major media outlet in the city will have this story on their desks," she says, "and believe me, reporters would salivate for a story like this."

"Like what, exactly?" I ask, calling her bluff.

"Just think. This is your daughter, and … son," she continues. "What kind of man … no, what kind of a father does that? And not only will you be revealed to the public as a fraud, but as a pervert too."

Venomous. Plain and simple.

The way her words manipulate the story, and paint the situation into something horrible sounding, makes my stomach clench.

I don't know why I ever married this woman. What did I ever see in her?

She doesn't wait for me to respond. Instead, she continues, "But it doesn't have to be this way. Talk to the banks. Flip the script. Tell them that Dirty Lil' Angels is a bad investment. And in doing so, prevent them from investing in the company."

I stand there frozen, the phone still held to my ear. I think about Natalie and Sloane, and everything that's at stake.

"Hello?" Linda asks. "Drake? Are you listening to me?"

Words are caught in my throat. Her ultimatum has left me speechless.

Do I give in and 'flip the script'?

Do I step into the viper's pit?