He made a few phone calls, dug a little deeper.

He asked Verity to relay a few random requests, assign some tasks that he knew Emily had already completed, just to see if she would do them again. She did. He asked her to go outside at a specific time every day for a week and take a photograph of the building at the end of the block. She went. He emailed her the password for an absent junior’s desktop computer and instructed her to access a file marked PRIVATE. She raised no objections. She was so eager to please that she complied with every order without hesitation.

He then found a Jungian personality quiz online, the type often used for career assessment, and pasted it into an email, tailoring it with a few “fun” questions of his own. Anticipating that Emily would enjoy the special attention, he invented a story about a company newsletter and an initiative to spotlight individual members of the team. Naturally, she took the bait. Her answers were most illuminating.

He even followed her home one night, shadowing her all the way to Deptford, where he’d watched her wrestle with the door to a depressing little flat above a curry house.

And then something amazing had happened. He’d made a call to a former colleague, cashing in on a long-standing debt of thanks. Three days later, that former colleague made good on his word and delivered a thick orange envelope to Scott’s desk, the contents of which almost stopped Scott’s heart. He’d never been one to believe in fate but here, it seemed, was a certain kind of proof. The heavens, the gods, whatever: something had conspired to lead that girl here, to Proem, to him. It could be no coincidence. Everything was too spookily, flawlessly aligned.

That very afternoon, the idea went from tiny seed to fully formed plan. He called in a few more favors, made a few arrangements. Placed some ducks in a neat little row. And then, about a week later, he instructed David Mahoney to terminate Emily’s employment.

Of course, he’d had moments of doubt. Moments when he’d questioned his own judgment. But then, as he’d watched Emily play hide-and-seek in reception with the little boy, the final piece fell into place. She was the right choice; he was sure of it.

Soon, he would call Yves. Start the preparations. There was just one thing left to do.

In his pocket, his phone vibrated once. Twice. Three times. Probably Nina again. Fortunately, he’d had the good sense to deal with yesterday’s barrage of messages before he’d gone to sleep. They’d spoken at midnight, her anguished whispers traveling the distance between them like a thread-thin beam of light, arcing back and forth over land and sea, bouncing off stars and satellites. He used to see their connection like that: an unbreakable line from his heart to hers, holding them together no matter how far apart they might be. Not anymore.

“Please,” she’d begged yet again. “You can’t imagine what it’s like. I’m so alone.”

He’d murmured his support, told her what she wanted to hear.

“If I just had someone to talk to, I…” She stopped. Switched tack. “When are you coming? When?”

For a few sweet moments he’d allowed himself to remember what it was like before. He thought about how it felt to laugh with her, to hold her and feel her hair tangled around his fingers. He remembered the day they met, and euphoria rose in his heart like a ghost from a grave. He conjured the smell of her perfumed skin and the warmth of her body, and after they hung up he’d felt, briefly, like he could breathe again. But inevitably, the feeling hadn’t lasted long. Within a couple of hours, he was back to jittery, agitated, and semiviolent.

Downstairs, the rumble of the elevator signaled the start of the day. The doors opened and Verity stepped out, her heels clicking across the polished concrete.

Scott cracked his knuckles and rolled back his shoulders. He pulled his phone from his pocket, determined to dismiss Nina’s latest communications and forget about her for at least the next few hours. But the missed call wasn’t from his wife.

Scott checked the number. The caller had left a voicemail message. Hitting the button, he lifted the phone to his ear.

“Scott. It’s Tom. Tom Stanhope?” The voice was eager, confident. “Sorry it’s early. Just wanted to tell you that I spoke to Damien and the job’s going ahead. Everything’s moving surprisingly quickly, actually, which is great. We leave next month. So, I just wanted to call and say how much I appreciate you setting it all up. You’ve changed my life, man. And that thing we spoke about?” The man’s voice became hushed, as if he’d just ducked into a quiet room. “It’s getting sorted today. Ten o’clock. So, yeah, I hope it helps you out. Anyway, give me a call later. And thanks again.”

Scott deleted the message and slid the phone back into his pocket.

“Scott?” Verity’s voice rang out from somewhere below. “Are you up there?”

“Yep,” he called back. “Coming down.”

Taking a deep breath, he threw one last glance at the empty reception desk before making his way back down the stairs, sliding his palm over the bronze stair rail as he went.

* * *

By 9:15, Scott was already exhausted. The breakfast meeting was not going well. Sweeping his aching eyes around the table, he tried to pay attention to the conversation. Verity was on a roll, engaging their investors with her usual flair, but Scott couldn’t keep up. The restaurant was too loud. He felt distracted and devoid of ideas. The conversation with Nina had resulted in a fitful night’s sleep; he’d tossed and turned, finally drifting off at maybe 3 A.M. Then two hours later, for reasons he now couldn’t quite fathom, he’d forced himself out of bed and into the gym.

Underneath the table, he balled his hand into a fist and winced. Gouging a hole in his palm with a pen had not been a great move. He’d cleaned and dressed the wound, but it was still throbbing. When Verity had asked about the bandage he’d told her he’d burned it on the oven. She seemed to buy it.

Someone nudged him.

“Sorry,” he said, clearing his throat. “What was that?”

“I said, congratulations on the latest IPO,” said the investor to Scott’s left, an Italian man with hair plugs and a frozen Botoxed forehead. “Impressive. I don’t mind telling you that a few of us had our doubts about that one, but once again, you did it.” He tapped Scott gently on the arm. “I tell you something now, Scott Denny: I will always invest with you. Whatever it is, I’m in.”

“I appreciate your faith in me.”

“Oh, I have faith. You know why? Because you, my friend, are ruthless.” The Italian held aloft his macchiato in a silent toast. “They told me in the beginning that you were ruthless, and that’s exactly what you are.”

Scott nodded, accepting the compliment with what he hoped passed for grace. Yes, he was ruthless. But he had good reason to be.

He clenched his jaw and shifted in his seat. He was in no mood to celebrate. Actually, that was an understatement. Suddenly, he was in no mood to drink, eat, talk, think, or suffer any company whatsoever.

Verity said something to him from across the table. He smiled, but inside him a storm was gathering.

“Another piccolo, Mr. Denny?” The ma?tre d’ hovered at his elbow.

Scott dismissed him with a small shake of his head. He felt unwell. A hot rage was building behind his eyes, and the urge to unburden himself right there in the restaurant, to vomit his secrets all over the white linen tablecloth, became almost uncontrollable.

Checking his watch, he placed his napkin on the table and pushed his chair back. “Gentlemen, I hope you’ll excuse me,” he said to the table. “But I have another meeting to attend.”

From the corner of his eye, he saw Verity’s head snap up. She mouthed something at him. What meeting?

“I’ll leave you in Verity’s capable hands. Thank you for your time, gentlemen, and I look forward to seeing you again.”

Shaking hands with both investors, he turned toward the door, leaving his assistant frantically scrolling through her calendar, looking for an appointment she would never find.

CHAPTER FIVE

EMILY

FEELING SOMEWHAT hungover and determined to avoid a discussion with Spencer about their imminent eviction, Emily crept out of the house early and caught the DLR into central London. Curling up against the window, she replayed the phone call with Juliet. There was no getting around it: she’d messed up. Again. She was a terrible person.