Page 152 of Revenge Puck

Whitney folds her arms. “It would generateseriousrevenue.”

Translation: a shit ton of money.

“It would also generate serious gossip,” legal counters.

“Gossip is free marketing,” marketing chirps back.

I keep my face neutral. Calm. Mildly intrigued, like the rest of them.

Inside, I am spiraling.

Because what happens when some tech billionaire heiress, with an ungodly monthly allowance, decides she wants Aaron Bishop at her side for three evenings in a row?

What happens if she wins?

Because those women are out there.

Those women exist.

And those women?—

“Excellent, I love this. Let’s explore it. I want numbers, risk assessment. Player interest.” She rattles off deliverables while her assistant starts typing at lightning speed, legal already nodding like they’re mentally drafting the waiver. “People will be begging for a ticket to this event—it’s going to be irresistible.”

Irresistible.

That’s the problem.

Aaron is already irresistible.

In nine months, during the fundraiser, the guys will be part of the auction to raise money for charity.

Whitney blows through her agenda, assigning committees and deadlines, hitting several more bullet points before ending the meeting.

In slow motion, I gather my notebook.

Glance down at a blank sheet of paper.

I make it back to my desk on autopilot, offering tight smiles to co-workers who are still buzzing about “the player idea.” My inbox is already piling up. Subject lines marked URGENT. Follow-ups. Calendar invites.

The normal stuff…

I’ve been seated maybe three minutes—barely long enough to wake my computer and scroll through social media—when a shadow falls across my cubicle wall.

I look up.

Declan.

He’s leaning against the partition, one shoulder propped on the door, arms folded. This isn’t a casual visit…

“Hey,” he says.

My spine straightens, and I turn toward him in my swivel chair. “Hey.”

He rubs the back of his neck, gaze flicking briefly down the hallway like he’s making sure no one’s hovering. “You busy?”

“Yes,” I say, but a smile tugs at my mouth.

My brother eyes my computer. “Okay. Fair enough.”