Chapter 92: The Men Go to War

In public, you play nice.

Julian had drilled that into her back at the Devs’. Today, Cora finally played her part.

Julian slanted her a look, amusement rippling through those fox-bright eyes. Learning fast, little mouse. And in front of Liam, the performance mattered most.

“Yes, Cora can’t play while she’s pregnant,” he said lightly. He bent, brushed a fingertip over the bridge of her nose, and smiled as if they shared a private joke. “I told you I could handle this. But you still stayed up prepping the brief. With you on my flank, what’s left to worry about?”

Cora held his gaze, felt her pulse misfire—and, inwardly, swore at him. Pretty face, deadly smile. Be serious for two seconds.

Good thing I’m not in love with you or I’d already be climbing you like a tree.

Liam clearly wasn’t here for their married-couple act. “It’s been a while since I played,” he said. “Perfect day to loosen up.”

“Enjoy.” Cora smiled and stepped back. Her assistant shadowed her to the edge of the green.

“The deck’s ready, Mrs. Watson,” the assistant murmured. “But Mr. Watson asked to keep business off the course. Relax first, talk terms later.”

“Got it.” Cora nodded. This was a battlefield for men who liked their wars polite. She wasn’t Riley—she didn’t have that gliding, carnivorous charm. Better to check on Dina.

Back in the private lounge, she pushed through the door. Empty.

Weird.

She called. Straight to voicemail.

A prickle of worry climbed her spine. She had chemo yesterday. I shouldn’t have dragged her out…

What Cora didn’t know: Dina had already found a quiet corner, changed into a tiny jet-black bikini, and slipped into the indoor pool. She knew Julian’s routines—golf, then laps. No need to chase him. Just wait where he’d come.

Cora exhaled and set her phone down. Please don’t wander, Dina. Before she could decide whether to search, her phone lit again.

“Riley?” Cora answered.

“You at the Watson golf estate?” Riley chirped. “I’m here too. Zone Two. Come play.”

“You’re here?” Cora blinked.

“Yep. My boss is teeing off with a herd of fossils. I’m dying of boredom. And I know Julian won’t let you near the table, so ditch him and come to me.”

Riley sounded airy and careless, all bounce and gloss. Cora knew that was armor. No one became a vice president at Odes without a blade under the silk.

“I should probably stay put,” Cora said. “If Julian needs me—”

“Fine, I’ll come to you,” Riley groaned. “He dragged me here to smile at donors. They don’t need me to breathe on them all day.”

“Only if your boss is okay with it.”

“He’ll live.” Riley hung up.

She arrived minutes later, poured into a fitted golf set that did nothing to disguise the fact that nature had over-delivered. Heads turned as she crossed the lounge.

“Drink?” Cora offered. “They just flew in a French red this morning.”

“Julian lets you drink?” Riley teased.

“Not me. But my friend can have a taste.” Cora signaled. A server brought a glass of wine and a warm milk.

Riley swirled, sniffed, lifted it to the light. “Of course. A nobleman’s darling.” She sipped and whistled.

“He burns money for sport,” Cora said, sipping milk. “You go numb after a while.”

“You sure you can sneak off like this?” Cora added. “Vice presidents don’t usually… roam.”

“My boss manages,” Riley said, unconcerned. Then her tone shifted. “Focus on you.”

“Me?”

“I don’t collect friends,” Riley said, direct as a blade. “You’re one. You saw me at my worst and didn’t flinch.”

Cora blinked. Before she could answer, Riley set the glass down. “If that makes you uncomfortable, forget I said anything.”

“No,” Cora said quickly, catching her hand. “I— I didn’t say that.”

Riley studied her, then broke into a laugh. “Now I see why Julian likes you. You’re fun.”

If only he liked me, Cora thought, a little bitter smile tugging at her mouth.

—

Out on the course, Julian and Liam finished their round, neither willing to cede so much as a stroke. The détente held—barely.

“Laps?” Julian suggested. “There’s a pool in Zone One.”

A change of arena, not the rules.

They stripped down to competition briefs in the men’s locker area—two unfairly symmetrical bodies and one shared refusal to lose. Zone One was Watson-only; clearing the pool took seconds.

“Don’t push too hard,” Julian said, lazy-smiling. “Hundred-meter personal best, fifty-four seconds. Granted, that was five years ago.”

“Charming,” Liam replied. “Mine was fifty-one. Ten years ago.”

The challenge hung between them, bright and sharp as a blade.

A staffer took a stopwatch, throat bobbing. “On your marks—set—go!”

They hit the water together. Two clean knives slicing glass.

They were neck-and-neck by the far wall when something broke the surface dead ahead—

A sleek body shot up from the lane, a flash of black, a soft gasp—

—then impact.

A strangled scream. A splash. The body vanished in a churn of bubbles.

Both men stopped cold.

Julian’s chest slammed with guilt. He had hit something—no, someone.

Who the hell is in here? No time for rage. Whoever it was had gone under hard.