Page 240 of Wild Card 13

Then he saw my face. Not the makeup. Not the blazer. Not thepart I had repaired in the staff bathroom. His expression changed by half an inch. “You look tired.”

“I am.”

His brows drew together. “You were here late again.”

I walked farther into the office. “I had work to finish.”

“You are also human, despite persistent evidence that you consider sleep an optional vendor service.”

I set my coffee on the edge of his conference table. “That sounds like something Lo said.”

“It was effective when she said it.”

“Did it work on you?”

“No.”

“Then why would it work on me?”

His mouth twitched.

For a moment, the last twenty-four hours loosened their grip enough for me to breathe inside a room where I had never had to perform being fine quite as hard as I did everywhere else.

Dad gestured toward the chair across from his desk. “Sit.”

“Is this owner business or father business?”

“Yes.”

“That was not an answer.”

“It was efficient.”

I sat.

He remained standing for a second longer, then set his phone on the desk and leaned back against it instead of taking his chair. That was father business, then. Or at least not fully owner business. Dad behind his desk meant decisions. Dad leaning against it meant he was trying to make a conversation feel less like one.

“Charlotte will no longer be an issue,” he said.

My spine straightened. “What does that mean?”

“It means exactly what I said.”

“Dad.”

His eyes narrowed faintly. “Lucy.”

“I need slightly more than ominous owner brevity.”

“She is gone from the organization permanently. Her access is closed. Any future attempt to interfere with team operations, contact staff or partners, or make legal threats will be handled before it reaches your desk.”

Charlotte’s email had been sitting inside me like a splinter. Not because I thought she would win. She would not. Her documentation was weak, her behavior was documented, and her confidence had always exceeded her strategy by a dangerous margin.

“What did you do?” I asked.

He sighed in the deeply put-upon manner of a man whose daughter had inherited too many of his interrogation habits. Then, slowly, his face shifted. Not into the public smile. Not the owner smile. Warm. Dry. A little dangerous. “I took care of the wicked witch with a bucket full of lawyers who have real credentials and the deep pockets of this team.”

I stared at him. He looked very pleased with himself. “A bucket full,” I repeated.