Page 20 of Discretion at Its Finest

“Confirm it,” I said, and he stepped away.

I turned to face her as she stopped only a couple feet away.

“You don’t need me in there,” she muttered, eyes fixed on me. “This is business between you and your family.”

“Myfamily?“ I repeated, my tone dark enough to make her flinch.

Her chin lifted, stubborn despite the tremor in her voice. “Yes, Reid. Your family. Parading me around like some prop to make whatever statement you convinced yourself of is ridiculous.”

“You’ve been a trophy wife prop for years. What’s the difference?” I asked, hiding the smirk that wanted to tug at my lips as her expression grew angry, her eyes fuming at my words.

She made a move to step away from me, but I didn’t give her the chance. My hand shot out, fingers circling her arm, and with one smooth pull I dragged her against me, her shoulder brushing my chest as we continued toward the door.

Her warm skin under my palm, softer than it needed to be. She stiffened, but her pulse jumped under my fingers, a quick flutter against my thumb that made me wonder if I was imagining it.

Her scent curling up into my throat invaded my lungs, intoxicated my mind. My cock throbbed, begging for some kind of fucking release from this torment.

The door swung open and the low hum of voices stopped abruptly as I entered, almost dragging my brother’s fiancée into the room. “Gentlemen,” I murmured, before pulling out a chair and placing her into it.

There were faces of confusion, glances of uncertainty; a few even exchanged concerned looks, but no one muttered a word. Gregory’s chair, once the head of the table, sat empty.

I went straight to it.

Genevieve seemed like a deer in headlights, confusion and embarrassment wrapped in one, frozen in her seat as I sat beside her.

Alexander, ever efficient, moved to my right with a folder already in hand. He laid a thin stack of reports across the table.

“The Newman Trust’s quarterlies are projected to stabilize by the end of Q3,” he said, his voice steady. “Private banking clients are beginning to return. Forecasts for next quarter show a twenty percent recovery under your restructuring plan.”

“Already?” one of them men far side of the table asked.

I glanced his way. “When you build a plan with reasonable input and actual oversight, things tend to move forward.”

The man frowned. “Those numbers… they’re just impossible.”

“With basic math and a solid foundation, they’re possible,” I said flatly.

A ripple of unease shifted through the room before there was a slight release. Shoulders relaxed, pens stopped tapping, someone exhaled in quiet relief. They wanted to believe it. Needed to.

But the woman beside me didn’t.

Genevieve’s expression had changed from shock to confusion as she skimmed the pages Alexander had just handed her, eyes tracing the columns of figures she couldn’t quite make sense of.

Her brow furrowed, mouth parting like she wanted to personally ask how the numbers could possibly add up. Probably wanted to know why they were so promising given my promise to destroy it all.

I didn’t give her the chance.

“Stabilizing the company isn’t enough,” I said, cutting through the hush. Every head turned toward me again. “The figures buy us breathing room, but they don’t fix perception. The market doesn’t follow facts… it follows confidence.”

The older men exchanged wary glances. I continued before any of them could speak.

“That means we stop hiding. We host again. Charity events, galas, whatever the hell it takes to remind the city that the Newmans are still a name worth saying aloud. Appearances are everything,” I continued. “People follow the image of powerbefore they ever follow the man who wields it. So we give them the image first. They’ll believe the rest soon enough.”

My gaze flicked toward Genevieve, seated beside me. She didn’t look up, but her shoulders tensed under the weight of every word.

A cough broke the quiet. “And Gregory’s role in all this?” one of the older men asked, voice cautious.

I didn’t hesitate. “Obsolete.”