Chapter Two

Hale

 

Ten years later.

“You know what your problem is?” Priscilla barks into the phone.

For someone who swaggers like a peacock, fanning her feathers to make sure everyone takes notice, this bird has a lot of bite.

“I’m emotionally unavailable?” I offer. “I don’t hang around long enough to cuddle and I could do without buying you more jewelry?”

“You asshole!” she screeches.

And when I say screech, I mean, screech.

I turn down the volume on my earpiece. Wall Street titans need their hearing and, being their king, I’m no exception.

“Pris, you knew what you were getting into the first moment you came up to me at the Governor’s Ball. I told you then. I’m telling you now. I don’t do commitment. I won’t wake up in bed beside you with puppy eyes, begging you not to leave me, and I’ll never give you more than I think you deserve.”

“You don’t think I deserve a ring?”

My driver glances at me through the rearview mirror. The privacy window doesn’t stand a chance against Pris’ shrill tone. In fact, I’m going to have to ask Al to double-check it for cracks. I flip through the report the new hire put together. It’s basic and juvenile, the research so sloppy and outdated, I’m surprised he didn’t top it off with a Hello Kitty sticker and some glitter. This guy went to Stanford?

“Are you listening?” Pris demands.

I give up on the report after noting he missed a major investment opportunity despite listing all those “facts.”

“Hale Wilder!”

She’s using my full name. Pris is real mad now.

“Pris, you really thought marriage was where we were headed?” I ask, sounding more laid back than maybe I should. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but wasn’t that your half-naked body getting awfully close to that professional golfer? What’s his name? The one who cheated on his first wife, the second wife, and the third?”

“I can’t believe you!” she yells, sounding genuinely aghast, bless her heart.

“It sure looked like you,” I say. “It was in the headline of page six just the other week, if I’m not mistaken.”

“Of course it was me,” she shrieks (again).

“Good, I’m glad we established that.” I hold out a hand when the Town Car rolls to a stop.

“Traffic,” Al mouths. “Going around, Mr. Wilder.”

A loud gulp followed by several hiccups replace the screeching.

I pause in the middle of straightening my tie. “Are you crying?” I ask.

“What do expect, Hale? I fucked a golfer in really ugly pants.”

“I didn’t need a visual,” I mutter.

“I was trying to get your attention!”

Great. Back to the yelling.

“It was one last desperate attempt to see if you care,” she tells me. “Do you think I’d ever want someone like him over you?”

I pinch the bride of my nose. How is it only eight in the morning?

“I did it for you, Hale. For us. I’m practically clawing off my face just to see if you’ll notice a scratch.”

Before, I was annoyed. Now, I’m damn well pissed. “Do you hear yourself? You think I want this for me? For anyone? Hell, Pris, you shouldn’t even want this for yourself.”

“Why am I not good enough for you?” she demands.

“Pris. I told you. I don’t have it in me.”

I’m not yelling. Just being honest. Me and Pris, we’ve done our share of using throughout the years. She needed arm candy for an event, I was there. She wanted to go hard and feel desirable, I’d open the door to my penthouse and rock her world between the sheets. But I never promised her more. I’ve never promised any woman more.

Well, almost never.

“I told you this from the moment we met,” I remind her. “If you wanted Prince Charming, you needed to look elsewhere.”

“I know what you said. But . . . dammit, Hale, I’ve given you two years! Two years of my company and enough blowjobs to make my jaw collapse. Two fucking years!”

She’s screaming, hollering. I wonder briefly where exactly she is. I’d say she’s alone. The thing about Pris is, she doesn’t care who hears what when she’s pissed. She thrives on attention, puts everything she has into it and always gives it her all. If she feels like yelling in the middle of Grand Central Station—if that’s what’s going to make her feel better—she’s going to do it, hellbent on getting and doing whatever she wants, even if it means delaying the Metro out of town.

The thought of her screaming in her office—the one her father drops seven grand a month for her to do absolutely nothing in—in front of twenty staff members who do everything else, riles me.

Part of me doesn’t think she has any business yelling. The other part of me, who recognizes the princess and pain-in-the-ass she is, also recognizes she’s a woman. One I’ve clearly hurt. Regardless of what people think of me and what I’ve had to do to make the money I’ve made, I’ve never intentionally hurt anyone. I’m not a bad guy. Just a man who’s had way too much bad.

“You may have spent two years with me, but in that time you’ve spent it with plenty of others,” I remind her. “I’m not perfect, Pris. But what you gave me isn’t marriage material. It’s not genuine. It’s nothing at all when you sit down and break it apart.”

“You’re not going to marry me, are you?”

“No, ma’am, I’m not.”

“Fuck you,” she says, abruptly disconnecting.

My head drops against the headrest just as Al pulls up to my building. I wish for two things right now: a strong cup of coffee and that I could care even a little about what just happened.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilder,” the security guard says, rushing to open the door for me.

“Mornin’, Jim,” I say.

The chorus of greetings meets me as my shoes tap against black marble tile as I make my way to the elevators. I don’t smile. I nod curtly. That smile I used to flash left me long ago.

I take a glance at my phone where it buzzes.

Where are you?

I almost grin. Almost. I don’t have to glance at the name or contact information to know it’s Neesa, my Nubian goddess of an assistant.

“On my way up,” I voice-text into my phone. “My coffee better be waiting for me, woman.”

It’s too early in the day to be an asshole, Hale, Neesa writes back.

The grin bypasses me straight into a chuckle. Still, the moment the elevator doors part, that grin I mustered fades. I step into an open floor plan laid out with enough white and gold marble to blind a man.

A redhead with legs as long as mine appears, handing me a steaming cup right away.

“Good morning, Mr. Wilder,” Red says.

“Mornin’.” I take a sip of my coffee, moving fast. Just a splash of cream, exactly how I like it. “Are the reports on my desk?”

“Yes, sir,” she says. “Everything you need and more.”

I nod as I pass the rows of cubicles. The staff jolt to their feet, anxious to greet me and articulate their good mornings. My intern, Clark, rushes to my side. He snags the briefcase from my hand when I lift it. Like a horse at his first derby, he takes off in the direction of my corner office.

Humph. Neesa trained him well.

I take another sip of my coffee as my phone buzzes with another text.

Two FUCKING YEARS, is all it says.

Damn. Pris is raging.

Was it two years? I suppose it was. Considering months went by when I’d fall asleep working at my desk and Pris would fall asleep in another man’s bed, it doesn’t seem like that long. If I had to guess all the times we were actually together, I don’t think whatever we had lasted more than three solid months.

I shrug . . . and that’s about it.

I’m halfway through my coffee and only a third of the way through more crap reports when there’s a knock on my door.

The redhead steps in, shutting the door carefully behind her.

She leans against the heavy wood. “More coffee, Mr. Wilder?”

“Nope. I’m good.” I frown when I see Neesa’s name at the top of the next report. Well, I’ll be damned.

“Are you?” Red asks. “How good?”

She flashes me a smile most women offer only when they’re naked. Maybe that’s what she meant about having more than I’d need waiting in my office.

Here’s the thing about me. Insensitive bastard or not, I don’t fuck my employees.

“I already I told you. I don’t need more coffee,” I tilt my head toward the door. “You can go now. Next time, ask for permission before you step in here or leave through the elevator and don’t bother coming back.”

Her face turns almost the exact same shade as her hair. Red has probably never been rejected in her whole life. Well, welcome to the real world, hon.

I’m rude. I’ll admit it. Momma taught me better manners. But I don’t really care. The door cracks open and in steps my queen and goddess among mortals.

Neesa takes one look at Red and scowls, her brown eyes flashing with irritation. She throws open the door. “Coffee and reports,” Neesa tells Red flatly. “I told you not to expect anything more from him. Pull anything like this again, you’ll be searching for employment in Alaska, do you understand?”

I flip through Neesa’s report. She doesn’t need me. Neesa doesn’t need anyone and my conversation with Red is long over.

The door slams tight. “You dumped Priscilla De La Terra?” Neesa demands.

I pick up a pen, crossing out a line item that reads more like bullshit than actual fact. “You did this?” I ask, motioning to the report.

Neesa squares her shoulders and tugs the jacket of her yellow suit. “I’ve learned a thing or two working here,” she replies. “And good morning to you, too, sir.”

“That’s, ‘your highness,’ to you.” I flip a page. “It’s good. Much better than the total shit I read earlier.”

“You didn’t answer my question.” she presses. “Did you or did you not break up with Pricilla?”

“Tiffany, why would I bother answering a question you already know the answer to? My time is precious, sugar cakes.” I lift the stack of reports I read through and toss them in the garbage where they belong. “Tell the Wall Street wannabees that if they don’t receive feedback, they need to redo their work if they intend to stay on with me. Oh, and kindly inform them that they didn’t get a proper enough education regardless of how much their mommies and daddies paid.”

“Tiffany? Sugar cakes? Really, Hale?”

Neesa is the only one in my firm allowed to call me by my first name, although she tends to use “asshole” more frequently than the name Momma bequeathed me. I’ll give her this, asshole is often a better fit.

“Hale?”

I look up, twirling the pen in my hand. I know Neesa. I know when her birthday is and that her favorite color is sunflower yellow. Just like I know I’d be nowhere without her. Calling her any name I want, just because I can, is sadly my only opportunity for a good chuckle given my workload and so-called life. Besides, it’s plenty fun. “My apologies, Marianne. I know you’re sensitive when it comes to your name.”

“Asshole.”

There it is.

Neesa leans at the edge of my desk, yet another thing she is allowed to do that no one else is. I know she’s only attended secretarial school or whatever the hell it’s called these days, but Neesa is razor sharp. If I died, right here where I sit, she could run this entire firm single-handedly. One day, she may even kill me for it. And if I keep up my pestering, that day may come sooner rather than later.

I flip through the next report. Better than the first few, but not as good as Neesa’s. “Where the hell are they getting their information from?”

“I’m not answering any more questions until you tell me why you ended your relationship with Priscilla.”

I take a sip from my coffee and voice command my laptop to fire up and open my email and stock market apps. “Ladasha, is now a good time to remind you you’ve hated Priscilla since the first time she called here, yelling at you and demanding you put her through to me?”

Neesa shoves her hands onto her hips. “I’m not defending her nor am I telling you that she’s not a terrible human being. I’m respectfully asking, why did you break up with her?”

The word respect was in there somewhere. I heard it. But her tone is anything but. The way she’s speaking and how she’s coming across? She’s ready to lift the ten-thousand dollar mahogany desk she’s looming over and crack my body in half with it.

The incident surrounding Priscilla has gone from a barely there memory to some highly entertaining interaction with Neesa. I flash her the “smirk,” that lopsided smile she hates more than anything else. “Pris called you, didn’t she?”

“And texted and sent me an email, and Gosh Almighty and cheese and crackers, will you wipe that stupid grin off your face!” She rolls her eyes and checks her phone, ramming the screen three inches from my face so I can read it.

I don’t bother, too entertained by Neesa’s fussing. “You know, you could poke my eye out with that thing.”

Neesa ignores me. She does that a lot. Call it a strategy to hold tight to her sanity. “Do you have any idea what it takes to run this office and to put up with your crapola on a daily basis?” She doesn’t wait for me to answer. “No. You don’t.”

“I don’t?” I ask innocently, which only fires her up more.

She leans forward, using all five-feet-seven inches of her to her advantage. “Absolutely not. I don’t need to deal with the likes of Priscilla all day long, sending me messages like this.” She waves the phone at me. “You know what she said?” Again. She doesn’t wait. “She says you have a small member.”

“You mean my brother, Carson?” I pretend to give it some thought. “He is a little shorter than me, but I wouldn’t exactly call him small—”

“She’s saying you have a small—” She glances at the door, as if suspecting someone might be listening, and drops her voice to a whisper. “—penis.”

I sigh. “Now Neesa, we all know that’s not true.”

If she wasn’t ready to beat me with the desk before, she is now. “For the last time. Why did you break up with her?”

I scrunch my brows. “Why do you care?”

Neesa has this ability, a gift, if you will, to singlehandedly shrink men’s balls inward and cause them to scurry behind their kidneys. All it takes is one glare. The same glare she’s pegging me with now. I’ve grown accustomed to the glare and it’s not a regular day if I don’t see it at least once.

I still have my balls, mind you, and after all these years with Neesa, they barely even twitch anymore. Except, the glare I know and love so well doesn’t last. Not this time. Her small features soften, matching the delicate ringlets of soft black hair she gives so much care to keep professional. “It’s not that I care about Priscilla. I don’t like her. I never will.” Her voice quiets in a way I’ve never quite heard. “It’s that I don’t like you alone.”

In the world of cutthroat business, where men and women use the knife they stab their friends in the back with to slash their enemies’ throats, all the while laughing at the blood pooling on the floor, Neesa’s words shouldn’t bother me as much as they do.

I reason it’s because no matter how much I make her mad, Neesa wouldn’t pull that knife on me. Nope. She’s too busy wiping off the sweat and blood pouring from my body when I return from battling my competitors. Just because I’d never hurt anyone doesn’t mean I won’t stand and fight. Like I mentioned, it’s a cutthroat business and the way it stands, I hold the biggest blade.

“Anything else?” I ask.

“Hale, don’t push me away.”

Neesa is the first person to praise me for doing right and the one shoving people aside to slap me upside the head when I’m being a prick. In other words, she’s a real friend. One of the few I have left.

“Send her a golden retriever puppy.” I reach for another red pen when the one I’m using stops working.

“A puppy?”

I glance up. “A golden retriever puppy,” I stress. “With a pink bow.”

“You know what?”

“Let me guess,” I say. “You don’t like bows?”

“Hale.”

“Or puppies?”

“Hale.”

“Pink?” I offer.

I think today is finally the day Neesa will kill me. If hate were sand I’d be looking at the Sahara Desert.

“Hale, from the first moment I interviewed for this position, I knew a day would come when I would have to sneak into your apartment and kill you in your sleep.”

See? I was right.

“What do you mean?” I ask. “I thought you women liked that shit?” I huff. “I mean what kind of sick fuck doesn’t like puppies?”

“Priscilla,” she says. “She’d skin that puppy alive, cut off its tail, and storm in here to smack you across the face with it.” She points. “After she dropped the decomposing body on my desk.”

“Flowers?” I suggest.

Neesa pushes away from the desk. “You have a ten o’clock with the Strubinskis, an eleven o’clock with the Holloways, and a lunch meeting with your top three.”

“Anything else?”

She whirls around. “Yes. You’re an asshole.”

I chuckle. The door barely finishes shutting when my cell phone rings and Sean’s face lights up my screen. “What’s up?”

He’s chewing on something as he speaks, but that’s just Sean. “Hey,” he says, his South Carolina accent just as thick as mine. “I think I have an ingrown hair on my ass.”

Normal people say good morning. That sort of shit is lost on Sean.

“You don’t say,” I mumble, scrolling through the stock report.

“I asked the woman I’m seeing if she’d take a look at it. She told me no. You think Mason will look at it this weekend?”

“I’m certain he won’t,” I say, making a note to call Mrs. Valez and tell her I just made her a millionaire. “And before you ask, I ain’t looking at it, either.”

“Well, hell. If your best friends won’t look at your ass, who will?”

“Probably a doctor is my guess.”

“Hmm,” Sean says. “You may be on to something there.”

“Mm,” I agree. I’m ready to discuss the excursion to Vegas we have planned for this weekend, but Sean’s not done yapping.

“You know how I’m not supposed to mention the ‘B’ word?”

My head falls into my hand and I rub. “Yeah?”

“Or the ‘F’ word?”

Sean means football, not fuck and the “B” word . . . well, there isn’t a stronger word out there. That word is capable of skinning me faster than Pris would that puppy. Becca . . . well, I’ll be damned. Why is Sean bringing her up now?

“Yeah?” I ask again.

“The ‘B’ word and the ‘F’ word are on TV.”

“They shouldn’t allow that on television,” I mutter. “Not with so many children watching.”

Sean pauses long enough to swallow whatever he’s munching on. “Hale, just put it on.”

Against my better judgment, I flick on the giant flat screen perched along the far wall. “Which channel?”

“All of them. You pick. Becca’s made national news.”

Of course she has. I switch on FS1. Yeah, there she is.

After all I’ve done and all I’ve suffered through these past ten years, seeing Becca should not have this effect on me. If my mind were as brilliant as everybody always told me it was, it should simply place Becca someplace between a childhood friend and one rough night. Just looking at her face should not shove those memories front and center or sharpen them to a dagger capable of puncturing my skull. But here I am, wondering how one woman can wield such a knock-out punch.

Sun-kissed blond hair streaked with platinum and assets capable of rendering a man powerless at the groin, Becca is that woman. The one every heterosexual man has fantasized about at least once in his life.

Her smile is as brilliant and heart-stopping as ever, threatening to knock me off my feet if I wasn’t already sitting. And her voice? Lord, help me. The moment I hear her sweet southern twang I’m that young man again, the one who never dreamed our friendship would die as brutally as it did.

What has to be wall to wall male reporters duke it out to ask the next question, “Miss Shields, Miss Shields,” one close to her calls out. “The Carolina Cougars are headed to the playoffs and hailed as heroes—not only in the South, but in the entire football league. Are you responsible for catapulting this once has-been, drug-addicted team into superstardom?”

Becca tosses her long hair over her shoulder, smiling like the angelic virgin she resembles, instead of the devil in high heels she is. “Of course, I am,” she says, adding a wink, because she’s not already sexy enough. “But I also think the hard work and unyielding spirit of this brilliant young team might have something to do with it.”

That earns her plenty of laughs from the crowd, and the way she tosses her hair, again more fans than all the players combined. Each word that flows from those full pretty lips laces the air with enough powdered sugar to taste it from here.

“Miss Shields,” another numb nuts beckons. “The Carolina Cougar cheerleaders are now the most recognizable faces in the entire league thanks to the success of the team.”

Becca nods, feigning curiosity. Like me, she already knows where this conversation is headed and she’s ready for it. “Is it true that there’s a new swimsuit issue planned where the cheerleaders have the option of posing partially nude or in lingerie?”

“Yes, sir,” she adds. “It’s also true that proceeds will go to the victims of the recent massacre in Yemen.” She tries to lead him away from the partial nudity and into a better PR place. “Every member of the squad was thrilled to be a part of the issue. These goodhearted ladies are not only committed to the professional aspects that accompany their duties as NFL cheerleads, but to aiding humankind beyond the world of sports.”

Damn. She’s good. Her response should be more than enough to placate the reporter and move the press conference along. Except this guy is more of dick than I initially thought. He speaks over the next reporter asking about the banquet Becks organized to raise money for the children’s hospital. “Will you be featured in the swimsuit issue, Miss Shields? The centerfold perhaps?” he adds with a laugh.

I can’t see this idiot, but recognize his question has at least some merit. Becca is all curves, tiny waist, and legs as long as Tennessee. She could be Playmate of the year and probably every year that follows. Gorgeous looks aside, Becca’s always been more brains than bust, an attribute she takes tremendous pride in and has valued more than the money she’s from. Anyone who’s ever taken the time to listen to her could sense as much.

This reporter though? It’s clear he ain’t listening.

“Stefan,” Becca says, her smile fading just enough to reveal her tough side. “I don’t grace the covers of sports magazines or pose for calendar shoots. I don’t even find it necessary to make the front page of the newspaper unless it’s to represent this team I’m so proud of. My job is to make sure that anyone associated with the Carolina Cougars uses his or her presence to give back to a world that’s been good to them and this future Super Bowl Champions team.” Her smile widens, still sweet, but with an edge, so it’s clear her final statement ends with an unspoken “you worthless piece of misogynistic shit,” rather than a period.

I shut the TV off when she turns to answer the next question. Not because I don’t want to keep watching, but because I do. Jesus Christ in heaven. When the hell am I going to get over this woman?

“Did you turn it off?” Sean asks.

There’s enough sound coming from his end of the line that I can still hear Becca’s voice. Unlike me, Sean is still watching. He and Becca remain close, but then again, they never got as close as Becca and me got on that beach.

“I have work to do, Sean,” I say, trying to keep my voice casual. “Anything else you want to tell me?”

“Yeah.” He takes a sip of his drink. “I think Becca broke off her engagement.”

I straighten, every muscle along my spine turning to stone. For once, I’m glad Sean’s not around. I don’t want him to see me like this.

“To the owner’s son, Paris,” Sean adds. “Hmm. Or is it Lynda? Could be Brooklyn or maybe something fancy like Minnesota. Whatever his name is, he’s out of the picture. Did you see? She’s not wearing a ring no more.”

I didn’t bother looking, but if Sean’s telling me, it’s because he did look. Ever since learning she accepted that jackass’s proposal, I’ve forced myself to stop wondering what could’ve been between us. Who the hell am I kidding? I’ve never stopped wondering about us. How her hair fanned over my shoulder and the feel of her when I climbed on top of her.

My chest tightens with anger. Memories of Becca always start out so good. No matter what, though, they always end the same, with me in a bad mood and in too much pain to be reasonable. “Why are you telling me this?” I ask. “You think I care what she does with her life?”

Sean is the type of guy you want on your side in a fight. He’s strong and all limbs. He’s not as lean as he used to be and definitely has more bulk than when we worked as lifeguards. But like a good ol’ boy born and bred in the deep south, he can knock out a man with one good punch, step over him, and take on the next guy who follows. Is he the most PC and appropriate guy you’ll ever meet? Nope. Not even close. But Sean has one of the biggest hearts I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing and he’s more brother than pal.

“You should care,” he says. “Becca’s my friend.” He takes a breath. “And regardless of what’s happened between you, she’s your friend, too, Hale.”

“Later Sean,” I say, disconnecting before he can say more shit than I need to hear.

Shit, nothing he says make sense. My “friend” he called her. God damn. That’s not what it looked like all those years ago and all those that followed. Every time I saw Becca after that night on the beach, every time I thought that maybe we could somehow start over, I’d hear things. I’d see things, too.

I’ll never understand why she didn’t leave with me that night her family caught us fooling around. I all but fell to my knees, begging her to come with me and promising to take care of her. Her family was never good to her and she was never good enough for them. Her Daddy wanted a son. When he didn’t get what he wanted, he treated her like garbage instead of embracing the special person Becca always was.

Still, she chose them and not me.

I return to my work, but I don’t do more than type a few words to an email before my thoughts return to the next time I saw Becca after that. It was a New Year’s party two years ago. Sean and Mason told me Becca wanted to see me, that she felt bad about missing dinner with our friends Trin and Callahan. Except, from the moment I arrived at her party, Becca seemed scared for me to approach.

A few women, friends of hers, I thought, found their way to me. I spoke to them while Becca spoke to some of the players who couldn’t seem to get enough of her and would lick the floor at her feet if she asked nicely enough. When those women got too close, Becca lost it, storming toward me, spewing nonsense about them keeping their distance from “her man.”

She meant me. It shocked the hell out of me, but more than anything it sent rage burning through me like a dam of hell fire.

I rub my eyes, replaying that night. Callahan got in trouble and we went after him. Becca looked scared. We’d fought and we were both upset, but without thinking I reached for her hand. It was my way of letting her know pissed or not, I’d stand with her. She held me tight, refusing to let me go. I thought we were going somewhere. Again, I was wrong. Denver (that’s his name) called Becks and ordered her back to Charlotte.

Fast forward to this past New Year’s. I mutter a curse and lean back into my seat.

Once more, Becca invited me to a New Year’s party in Kiawah. Once more I showed up like the pining idiot I was. After sending me multiple texts insisting I come and that she missed me, how could I refuse? I had my doubts. Trust me. After the previous New Year’s fiasco I wasn’t keen on what might go down. Instead of listening to all those warning bells going off in my head, I decided to go, thinking it was time to give us another chance.

I didn’t RSVP, hoping to surprise her with a bottle of champagne and a grin. I arrived as she hurried off to the beach by herself. I thought this was the perfect moment. The thing was, the surprise was on me.

Becca walked toward me all shy-like, the ocean wind whipping her long hair against the side of her face. For a second, we were twenty-two again, two kids on verge of falling in love.

She smiled and I swear I saw a flicker of grateful tears. She looked—I don’t know—moments from racing across the sand and throwing her arms around me. But then she froze. My guess is she noticed my eyes widen to saucers when I saw that giant rock glistening on her ring finger. If that wasn’t bad enough, she tried to hide it behind her. It was too late. I stomped back to my Aston Martin, ignoring her when she tore after me. She begged me to come back. I didn’t. To hell with that. Instead, I took off, blocking her number as I burned rubber around the bend.

Becca was engaged. She didn’t bother to warn me like a real friend would. Instead, she set me up like a fool. She sold her house in Kiawah soon after that. Probably so she and that loser can buy one on together.

“Mother fucker,” I mumble, glaring at the screen as if it somehow wronged me.

I reach for Neesa’s report, but I don’t get far. Yelling and scrambling erupt behind the double doors leading to my office. Like a bomb detonating, the doors burst open. I’m already to my feet when men covered with FBI jackets swarm in like an army invading a small country, their guns out, hollering at me to freeze.

“What hell is this?” I ask.

Strong bodies lurch forward, pinning me to my desk. “Hale Wilder,” a big man barks into my ear. “You’re under arrest for fraud and stock market manipulation.”