@BettencourtBets: Bet IVy got quite the shock when he checked out Page Six this morning!

Tristan

The VIP lounge at Ceilo’s was now packed, and it took at least twenty minutes to determine that Bryce and Reina were nowhere to be found. And neither of them were answering their phones. After confirming with the bouncers that they had left together, something I should have done before wasting my time looking upstairs, I headed back to the car only to realize that I didn’t even know which apartment was Reina’s. Thankfully, Kyle was able to look it up on Bettencourt’s internal database.

My car pulled up outside a non-doorman building in Morningside Heights, the kind with a steel panel and intercom outside the front door. No answer at her unit, so I did the only sane thing. I pressed every other button until the front door opened with a buzz. Her apartment was on the highest of five floors, with no elevator in sight, a fact I found inordinately pleasing despite my pounding pulse. Surely if Reina was playing me, between her Bettencourt signing bonus and salary, plus her take from Van Horne, she’d be living in a much nicer place.

Banging on her door yielded only an irate neighbor. Several, in fact. As I was tapping out a WHERE R U? text to Reina, it vibrated in my hands. Dale. Or Tim. I still couldn’t tell which was which.

“What did you find out?”

“Reina St. James has over a hundred thousand dollars in debt, mostly from student loans, and the only large deposit was her signing bonus from Bettencourt. She put almost all of it toward her debt.”

No money from Gerald, or any of his companies, including Bull Capital. That put a small dent in my suspicions. “Good work. And how about the phone registered to Van Horne?”

“It’s not used very often, and almost all of the calls are to Saks Fifth Avenue, Neiman Marcus, and a few florists. Also various spas and doctors’ offices, mostly dermatologists and plastic surgeons.”

I grinned. Reina wasn’t a plant for Bull Capital, although nothing I had learned explained her connection with Gayle Van Horne. But still, I was pleased.

“Do you mind if we go home now? We can get back to it tomorrow.”

I looked at the time. Shit. It was late. “Of course. See you tomorrow.” Where the fuck was Reina?

I hunkered down on the floor outside Reina’s apartment, expecting to hear her footfalls on the stairs any minute. I was sick of other people telling me about Reina—her call history, her financials, her past. Enough was enough. The only person from whom I wanted to learn about Reina, was Reina. She’d always held a part of herself back from me and I’d let it slide. But I was tired of being an open book, biding my time until she was ready to open up. I was well past my expiration date on waiting. And damn it, she had better be home soon.

I thought I’d gotten past my fear that Reina was just another Trophy-Wife-In-Training. Our relationship had progressed, but only by taking two steps forward and one step back. Were there land mines of dogshit littering our path? Had I just stepped in one?

Over the next hour, I demolished my inbox. Responded to everything that needed a response, sorting and deleting until there was not a single email left. Midnight became one a.m. I logged into Bettencourt’s internal server, combing through research reports I’d been meaning to get to for days. By two, my phone was dead. Eventually, fighting the pull of my eyelids, I abandoned my stakeout, mostly in the hopes that Reina would be waiting for me at my apartment by the time I got there.

This was not normal. I was not the kind of guy that gave someone a mile of rope before wondering if I should look for a pair of scissors. I’d never sat outside a girl’s apartment for hours, waiting for her to show. I hadn’t given much thought to the relationships I had in the past, or the women I’d dated. They were easy, or convenient.

Reina was neither of those things, and yet I didn’t care. She was mine.

But was she? Alone in the back of a cab, in the middle of the night, I didn’t have a fucking clue.

Reina

I woke up, uncomfortably reminded of the morning after attending my first fraternity party my freshman year of college. Very uncomfortably.

“Ow.” I rubbed at my forehead, then pressed the palms of my hands against my temples. It felt like the bubbles from all the champagne I’d consumed last night were trapped inside my skull, expanding with every second. An image of my overflowing glass appeared against the back of my eyelids. Then, like a movie, other scenes played out. Ceilo’s, Tristan leaving, continuing to drink with Bryce. Bryce. Oh no. Shit. I sat up, steeling myself against the shooting pain assaulting my brain. My last clear memory was leaving with him, and nearly falling down the same set of stairs I’d tripped on earlier. Bryce had caught me, though, just before I tumbled down the entire flight. Wait—I remember getting into a cab, but nothing after. I must have fallen asleep in the car. Shit, shit, shit. Way to make a good first impression.

But I had a more pressing problem than embarrassing myself in front of my brother. Where the hell was I?

I sure as hell wasn’t in my crappy little studio. And I wasn’t in Tristan’s modern loft. No. This room was dark, and not just because the sun had barely peeked above the horizon yet. Every stick of wood was mahogany, and embellished with claw feet, carved fretwork, and polished brass accents. I’d been sleeping in a sleigh bed, under a heavy gold duvet. The walls were covered in burgundy damask wallpaper, and even the trim was dark wood. The effect was very Men’s Club, and I wouldn’t have been surprised to see a foursome hovering in a corner playing poker, sipping cognac, and smoking cigars.

Instead, I spotted Bryce. Still fully dressed, he was sprawled out in a chair, his feet propped up on an ottoman covered in gold paisley velvet.

Oh no. Oh my God, no. I definitely wasn’t in a hotel room. And Bryce had said he didn’t keep a place in the City. Shit. Could I be at my parents’ apartment?

As quietly as possible, I slipped out from under the covers. Picking up my shoes in one hand and my purse in the other, I tiptoed across the carpeted floor and gingerly opened the door, barely daring to breathe. The only thing that mattered right now was getting out of this place. Once outside Bryce’s room, I was confronted with a long hallway stretching to either side of the door. Right or left? My head swiveled, heart racing. I broke right, skipping across a series of Persian rugs as if they were lily pads on a lake.

Until I ran into someone. Literally. I clapped a hand over my mouth, catching my scream before it ricocheted through the high-ceilinged hall. Thankfully, it wasn’t a Van Horne.

“I’m so sorry,” I whispered to the shocked maid, dressed in a simple black uniform, but minus the white lace apron. “Are you okay?” She nodded yes. “Okay, great. That’s good. Um . . . how do I get out of here?” She pointed down another corridor. I swallowed, resisting the urge to ask her to lead me.

But thankfully, this one was shorter, only two rugs to race across before I came to an oversized foyer and an elevator door. Of course they would have their own elevator rather than a front door leading to a shared hallway. The chime announced my exit with the dignity of a cowbell, and I scurried into the elevator, jabbing at the button for the lobby as I leaned into the corner, keeping my head low in case of cameras. This was not how I wanted to come face-to-face with Van Horne, scurrying from his son’s room, wearing wrinkled clothes and last night’s mascara.

I yanked on my shoes as the elevator made its way down countless flights, my relief increasing with each one. The doorman stoically offered to get me a cab, not batting an eye at my disheveled appearance. But the sooner I was out of sight of his building, the better. By the time I jumped into the backseat of a taxi around the corner, I felt as if I’d run a marathon. Or at least sprinted over a dozen hurdles. Jesus.

My phone was dead, although it was too early to call anyone, even Tristan. New York might be known as the city that never sleeps, but before six a.m., it runs on half-speed.

Once safely back in my apartment, I headed straight for the shower. I was beyond hungover and welcomed the hot water sluicing over my scalp, pushing away the cobwebs in my mind. My memories were there, but hazy. Before I walked into work in an hour, I needed to get myself together.

And I needed to come clean with Tristan. I had tried and failed again last night, before going with him to Ceilo’s. But if there was one thing hanging out with Bryce had proved, it was that nothing good came from keeping secrets. He was the older brother I’d always wanted, but thanks to my lapse in judgment last night, I was just his buddy’s drunk girlfriend. I didn’t know yet if I was willing to tear my mother’s world apart by telling her stepkids about me, but Tristan deserved to know the truth. Especially since Van Horne’s siege to Bettencourt was just a thinly veiled assault on me.

I thought I was being so smart, burying my past and everything I was so ashamed of. Except that the boxes I used to hide my secrets were leaching hazardous toxins. I was poisoning myself and everyone around me.

Tears mixed with the spray from my shower. Today was very likely my last day at Bettencourt, probably my last day with Tristan too. But he deserved to know the truth, once and for all.

Would he still want me? I had a sinking feeling I wasn’t going to like the answer.

Tristan

Reina wasn’t at my apartment either. Even once I charged my phone, there were no missed calls, no voice mails, no texts. Nothing. Ditto for Bryce. I called them each one more time. Still nothing. Fuck it. I should have forced myself into bed. Or burned off my mounting frustration on the treadmill.

Instead I grabbed a bottle of scotch and poured myself a stiff drink. And then another. After the second, I felt numb. And after the fourth, I felt nothing at all.

Until the sound of my phone woke me from my drunken stupor, its shrill chirping pecking at my skull like a ravenous crow. I fumbled for my phone, still plugged into the charger on the end table beside my sofa. I’d never made it to bed. The lamp crashed to the ground as my fingers closed around the device, my thumb swiping the screen before I glimpsed the caller ID. “Reina?”

“Hey, no. It’s me.” Kyle said. “Listen, I’m sure you’re on your way into the office soon, and I—”

Way too many words. “What time is it?”

“Six-fifteen.”

Fuck. “Yeah, I’ll be in within a half hour.” I sat up, trying to ignore the axe that crashed through my skull.

“Oh. Okay. Fine. I just wanted to get your take on the whole Reina thing. I’m in your corner on this one, however you want to handle it.”

“Yeah, about that. I heard back from Dale and Tim. I think we’re in the clear, Reina’s not an agent for Van Horne.”

“Wait—you haven’t seen . . .” His voice trailed off.

“Kyle, you’re killing me here. What’s going on?”

He cleared his throat and I winced at the noise drilling into my ear. “Check out the latest BettencourtBets tweet. I’ll hold.”

Alarm bells joined the fray as I read the noxious tweet . . . Hockey-playing heir to Bull Capital.

“Goddamn it, Bryce,” I gritted out. If he’d so much as laid a hand on Reina I was going to rip him to shreds, injury or not. And then I clicked the link embedded in the text. With the speed of a caterpillar, two images came to life on my screen.

“Tristan? Tristan, you still there?”

Reina and me. Reina and Bryce. “Yeah, I’m here.”

“How do you want to handle this? Should I call Reina, tell her not to come in?”

My stomach twisted in knots as I examined the two photos. The last conversation I had with Dale, or was it Tim, had left me fairly confident that Reina wasn’t working with Van Horne. But was the truth even more painful? Has she spent the night with Bryce? I groaned, rubbing at the crease in my forehead as I thought back over the night. Reina had seemed interested in him, but it never felt as if they were flirting. I stood, anger eating away at my hangover.

“No. None of this changes the fact that Van Horne is gunning for us. And if Reina is playing for their team, she’s not going to show up after being outed like this. Just sit tight, I’ll be in soon.”

One of the first lessons I learned on the ice was to keep my head in the game. Always look for an opening to score, or a threat to eliminate. Focus on one thing at a time. Hitting the opposition hard, getting the puck, scoring a goal. Every game was just a series of plays, one after the other. But as I leapt into the shower, it was clear that playtime had come to an end. Everything that mattered to me was at risk. Reina. Millennial. Bettencourt. I’d always been good at compartmentalizing, but my skills were being pushed to the limit.

Helluva start to the day.

Reina

Crap. I’d forgotten to plug my phone into the charger while I was in the shower. A quick glance at the clock told me it was too late to bother now, so I threw the charger and useless phone into my bag, along with a pair of killer heels, and stepped into the ballet flats that wouldn’t actually get me killed walking down five flights.

I made it into Bettencourt’s lobby just as Megan, my training program coordinator, reached the elevator.

“Oh, Reina.” Megan blinked, hands clutching a newspaper to her chest as I stepped in beside her. “What a surprise.”

I gave her a confused look. She had checked in with me periodically throughout my weeks at Bettencourt, and we’d grabbed a quick coffee together just yesterday morning to discuss my experiences so far. “Really?” It shouldn’t have surprised her to see me walking into work.

“I-I just thought maybe today you would—um.” The doors opened as Megan was still stuttering.

I had to prompt her. “I would . . . what?”

“Nothing, nothing.” She waved a hand in front of her face. “Don’t mind me. I’m sure you’re very busy. See you.” She jabbed at the buttons on the panel, clearly in a hurry to get to her own floor.

As I walked toward the Millennial team, something wasn’t right. Everyone I passed looked as surprised to see me as Megan had. Strange, given that I was with them just yesterday.

But nothing prepared me for the look on Tristan’s face. He was surprised too. But it was mixed with anger, and sadness.

“Hey. What’s going on?” I glanced around at everyone near us, all busy straightening things on their desk or staring intently at various screens. Everywhere but at me.

Tristan’s mouth opened several times before simply grabbing my arm, pulling me into his office and closing the door. “Tell me there’s a reason you’re talking to Gayle Van Horne.”

Every minute of my commute into the office had been spent planning, in a thousand different ways, what I would say to Tristan this morning. I would lay bare all my dirty secrets. I would explain that Van Horne was gunning for him because of me. I would admit that I loved him. And then I would offer my resignation.

Since the first night we spent together, I’d been dreading the moment Tristan would learn that I wasn’t the woman he’d picked out of a crowd. He had already taken it in stride when I turned out to be a finance geek who, quite inconveniently, was working for his hedge fund. Now he’d know just what kind of girl he was risking everything for—illegitimate, an accident, the punchline to a dirty joke. He was a value investor and I was a penny stock.

If that had been all, I would have walked away. Or at least I would have tried. He was too good for me, and not just because of his last name. He was passionate and smart, and so damn gorgeous it twisted my stomach every time I looked at him. But more than that—he was just good. There was no pretense, no games. What Tristan Bettencourt said, he meant. And as the daughter of a man whose DNA meant less to him than a dollar bill, I owed Tristan the truth. I couldn’t let him think that I had used him . . . and certainly not to benefit the same man who wouldn’t acknowledge my existence.

This moment had been building for too long. It was overdue, actually. And I was ready to tell Tristan everything, even if it meant losing him, even if it meant he would look at me with the same naked revulsion he’d directed at Elise. But not once had I considered that I wouldn’t be starting with a clean slate. Clearly Tristan knew something—I just didn’t know what, or how much. My slate was contaminated.

“I can explain.” The three words spoken by cheaters the world over. Seriously, could I have reached for a more awful phrase? No wonder Tristan balked.

“Save it. I don’t want to hear any more of your lies.”

I grabbed his arm, clinging to him as if I were drowning. Probably because I was. “Tristan, please. It’s not what it looks like.” I could have slapped myself. I was terrified and the words springing from my lips belonged in an over-scripted soap opera.

“Really? Because it looks like you’re not the woman I thought you were. And that our relationship, if I can even call it that, was one big lie. For fuck’s sake, even a blind man would be hard-pressed to believe you’re not working for a man trying to take down everything that’s important to me.”

I shook my head like a dog with fleas. He was right, I wasn’t the woman he thought I was. “I’m not working for Van Horne. I swear, you have to believe me—”

“And just what the hell happened to you last night? You might as well tell me, no? I mean, since everyone else has already read about it.”

“Read about it? What are you taking—”

Tristan cut in again, the hurt in his voice flaying me to the bone. “Were you too busy with Bryce to catch the tweet about your tough decision?”

My stomach was roiling. “Tweet? No, my phone died. And I’m sorry about Bryce, really I am. I can’t believe I let things get so out of hand. It was stupid, and irresponsible. I’m really sorry if I embarrassed you with your friend.”

Tristan stared at me as if I was speaking in tongue. “Embarrassed me? Is that what you call fucking one of my oldest friends?”

“Wait—what? I didn’t sleep with Bryce. Gross.” I made a face.

“Really? That’s the best you’ve got? Bryce is a lot of things, but gross isn’t usually how women describe him.”

“I swear to you, Tristan. I wouldn’t do that, ever.”

He walked over to his computer, tapped out a few keystrokes, and swiveled the monitor back at me. “Then what the hell is this?”

The screen displayed two side-by-side images. One of me with Tristan, the other with Bryce. Both taken on the stairs of Ceilo’s, both showing a very smiling me with their arms around my waist. The caption read, Hedge Fund Harlot.

I sank into the sofa. “Oh my God.”

At this rate, Tristan probably thought of me like grime on the bottom of his shoe. Was this the risk I took by mingling with men whose names were regularly splashed across New York’s society pages? How could I have been so stupid? And then I knew. Yes, I’d been oblivious to the point of ridiculousness. But there was also someone out there just waiting for me to trip up. Literally. It was my fault. I should have known Van Horne would never let me build a career on Wall Street. As far as he was concerned, hanging out with his son must have been the final nail in my coffin. Those pictures were damning. If Tristan didn’t fire me, or I didn’t quit from shame, it would be a landmine I had to dodge on every single interview. Life on Wall Street wasn’t for the faint of heart, but this was a really low blow.

I was the Lindsay Lohan of Wall Street.

As mortifying as it was, though, I wasn’t quite ready to lie down and play dead. Hell no. Van Horne would not win by playing dirty.

But he wasn’t my first priority. I would deal with Van Horne later. And I would worry about my career later, too. Right now, the person who mattered most was standing right across from me. Looking like he was a hair’s breadth away from calling security to escort me from the premises.

I could explain, but would Tristan believe a word coming out of my mouth? Especially the four-lettered one that had been at the tip of my tongue just a few minutes ago.

Could I have just destroyed everything I’d ever wanted, all because of too much champagne and a pair of shoes that should have required a breathalyzer?