Brad’s your friend. You’ve known him almost all your life. You like him. It would be wrong to strangle him right now. The jail time just isn't worth it.

That’s what I tried to tell myself as I ran my fingers through my windswept hair and tried to regain a measure of composure before entering the room. The bus had been delayed, and on the subway, we’d been packed in like sardines. It had taken me an hour and a half to make it to City Hall. Worst of all, my boss had offered me some overtime work at the last minute, and I had to turn him down because of this stupid meeting. And God knew I needed every extra cent.

Not that Brad would ever acknowledge it, but he owed me.

“You’re late,” Brad said when he saw me. I suppose he thought that was a greeting.

“Hello to you too, Brad,” I said dryly. Brad’s eyes glinted, and his hands were clenched at his sides. I could recognize the signs well enough. Brad Wexley was psyching himself up for the upcoming confrontation with Drake & Partners.

His next words confirmed my hunch. “Ryder Drake isn’t going to win today,” he said.  

I made a noncommittal noise in my throat. Brad might have thought we had a chance, but I had a more realistic assessment of our odds. Today’s meeting at City Hall was supposedly being held to solicit public opinion about the Drake Towers project, but the harsh reality was that it didn’t matter what the residents of the city thought. Drake & Partners had more than enough votes in city council to ensure that their mixed-use part-commercial, part-residential project, would get the approval to go ahead, creating yet another concrete blight on Toronto’s waterfront.

It was pointless to say any of that to Brad though. He never listened. “We’re going to give it our best shot,” I said instead, my voice encouraging.

“You should have worn something else,” he continued as if I hadn't spoken, looking at my outfit critically. “You don’t look camera ready.”

I stifled an exhale of irritation. I hadn’t wanted to come today. My brain was consumed with worry about the impending prospect of homelessness. Last night, I’d opened what appeared to be yet another overdue property tax notice from the city, only to discover that it was an eviction notice. If I didn’t come up with two hundred thousand dollars in ninety days, the city was going to seize my grandmother’s home and put it on the auction block. This construction project was not the most important thing in my life. Not even close.

“I don’t have anything else,” I snapped. “I came straight from work.”

“Fine.” Perhaps he recognized from my voice that I was at the end of my tether because he didn’t press the issue. Instead, he turned around and surveyed the crowd with a satisfied smile. “This is going to play really well on TV,” he said smugly. “Ryder Drake is going to have no idea what hit him. The media loves stories about the rich stealing from the ordinary folk. Makes for good ratings.”

I rolled my eyes. Brad could be remarkably tone-deaf sometimes. Ordinary folk my ass. He’d inherited a chunk of money from his parents and owned his house outright. If he was ordinary folk, I was the Empress of Egypt.

As I contemplated the best way to tell Brad off, a sudden hush fell over the crowd. I turned to see the mayor walk in, along with Bianca Russo, city councilor of the affected ward. But it wasn’t them my eyes were drawn to. It was the man walking at their side, wearing a suit that probably cost more than I made in a year. A man who exuded power and wealth and privilege from every pore in his body. A man I recognized from a fawning Toronto Life feature on the hottest single men in the city. A man who, in his mid-twenties had moved to London, founded his own architecture firm, and grown it into one of Europe’s leading design houses, making millions of dollars along the way, before moving back to Toronto two years ago.

Ryder Drake, the lead architect and majority-owner of Drake & Partners, the mastermind of the project I was determined to oppose, strode up to the podium in the front.

Next to me, Brad was looking pole-axed. “Did you know he’d be here?” he whispered to me. There was a note of panic in his voice. Brad had counted on being able to make his case to the TV cameras without someone to argue the other side.

“The devil takes care of its own,” I whispered back in a low voice.

When I looked at the stage once again, Ryder Drake’s dark eyes were resting on me, and his mouth was compressed into a tight line.

If I didn’t know any better, I would have sworn he had heard me.