Chapter 68
Rowan's POV
The report arrived at eleven-thirty.
I sat in The Oak Club's private room, the leather chair creaking slightly as I leaned back. The scotch in my hand was my second—maybe third. I'd stopped counting after the gala ended.
Jack had sent the file twenty minutes ago. I'd been reading it since.
Victor Hargrove. CEO, Hargrove Industries.
The first page was standard background—education, career trajectory, board memberships. Nothing remarkable.
The second page was more interesting.
2019: Titan Manufacturing acquisition. Concealed $3M in outstanding debt. Buyer nearly declared bankruptcy within six months.
I took a slow sip of scotch.
2021: Former executive assistant Jessica Monroe filed sexual harassment complaint. Settled for $500K with strict NDA. Case sealed.
My jaw tightened.
2023: Threatened Wilson & Associates with reputational damage after firm refused to falsify audit reports. Firm lost three major clients within two months.
I set down the glass.
The image came back—Lena stepping away from Hargrove at the gala, her hand gripping that champagne flute too tightly. The careful neutrality in her voice when she'd said I can handle it.
She could handle it. That wasn't the point.
I picked up my phone. "Jack."
"Yes, sir?"
"I need you to extend an invitation to Victor Hargrove. Tell him I'd like to discuss a potential collaboration. Tonight, if possible."
A pause. "At the club, sir?"
"No. Arrange a suite at the Grandview. Make it sound... appealing."
"Of course." Another pause. "Sir, may I ask—"
"Just make the arrangements."
"Yes, sir."
---
The suite was on the top floor—floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking Silverton's skyline, minimalist furniture, a wet bar in the corner.
I poured another scotch and waited.
The knock came at midnight.
Jack opened the door. "Mr. Hargrove, sir."
Victor walked in, all expensive suit and practiced charm. His smile was wide, his handshake firm. "Mr. Reynolds. This is an honor. I've been hoping for an opportunity to work with Reynolds Industries."
I gestured to the chair across from me. "Please. Sit."
He did, settling in with the ease of a man who thought he'd already won. Jack closed the door behind him, leaving us alone.
I poured a second glass of scotch, slid it across the table. "I appreciate you coming on short notice."
"Of course, of course." He picked up the glass, swirled it once. "I have to say, I'm thrilled. Reynolds Industries expanding into manufacturing—it's a natural fit. Hargrove Industries has the infrastructure, the talent, the—"
"I didn't invite you here to discuss manufacturing."
His smile faltered. Just slightly. "Oh?"
I took a sip of my drink. "I wanted to talk about your conversation tonight. With Lena Grant."
He blinked. Recovered. "Ah. Ms. Grant. Impressive lawyer. I was considering hiring her firm for—"
"You offered her a case." I kept my tone even. "And when she asked to review it through proper channels, you suggested she come to your hotel suite instead."
His expression went carefully blank. "I think there's been a misunderstanding—"
"There hasn't."
Silence.
I leaned forward slightly. "Let me tell you what I know about you, Mr. Hargrove."
His hand tightened on the glass.
"In 2019, you acquired Titan Manufacturing. You concealed three million dollars in outstanding debt. The buyer nearly went bankrupt cleaning up your mess."
"That was a clerical error—"
"In 2021, your executive assistant filed a sexual harassment complaint. You settled for half a million dollars. The case was sealed, but the records exist."
His face had gone pale.
"Last year, you threatened Wilson & Associates—a highly respected firm—because they refused to falsify audit reports. Within two months, they'd lost three major clients. Clients you personally contacted."
"Those are... those are all rumors." His voice was tight. "There's no proof—"
I reached into my jacket, pulled out a folder, and slid it across the table.
He stared at it.
"My team is very thorough," I said quietly. "Everything in there is documented. Emails. Financial records. Witness statements." I paused. "If I wanted to, this could be on the front page of the Silverton Business Journal by morning."
He opened the folder. Flipped through the first few pages. His hand trembled slightly.
"What do you want?"
"I want you to stay away from Lena Grant."
He looked up. "That's it?"
"Don't contact her. Don't approach her firm. And if I hear you've been spreading negative rumors about her in our circles..." I let the sentence hang. "You'll find out how quickly a reputation can be destroyed."
He swallowed. "She's just a small-time lawyer. Why do you care?"
I held his gaze. "You don't need to know why I care. You just need to know that if you touch her, I'll make sure you never do business in this city again."
His jaw worked. He was calculating—weighing the risk, the potential reward, the cost of defiance.
Smart man. He chose survival.
"I understand," he said finally. "I won't approach her again."
"Good." I leaned back. "And Mr. Hargrove? If I hear even a whisper of retaliation—if her firm suddenly loses a client, if her name gets dragged through the mud at some networking event—I'll assume it's you. And I'll act accordingly."
He stood, his movements stiff. "Message received, Mr. Reynolds."
I didn't stand. "Jack will see you out."
He left without another word.
---
The door clicked shut.
Jack reappeared a moment later. "Sir?"
"Keep an eye on him for the next few weeks. I want to know if he makes any moves."
"Of course." Jack hesitated. "Anything else?"
I looked out the window, at the lights of Silverton stretching into the distance.
"No. That's all."
He left.
I poured another scotch, drained it in one swallow, and set the glass down harder than necessary.
Lena's voice echoed in my head. We're not married anymore. My business isn't yours to manage.
She was right.
But that didn't change anything.