agreed to meet Damien Cross at his office Wednesday afternoon. CrossTech Industries occupied a sleek glass tower in Midtown, all modern lines and cutting-edge design. The aesthetic was deliberately different from old money establishments like Sinclair Global—this was new power, earned not inherited.
His assistant, a young man with impeccable style, escorted me to the top floor. "Mr. Cross is expecting you, Miss Sinclair."
Damien Cross stood at the floor-to-ceiling windows, looking out over the city. He turned as I entered, and I took a moment to observe the man the media called "The Wolf of Wall Street 2.0."
He was tall, probably six-two, with dark hair that looked artfully disheveled and sharp green eyes that missed nothing. His suit was bespoke, his presence commanding. He was handsome in a dangerous way—all sharp edges and intensity.
"Miss Sinclair." He moved forward, offering his hand. "Thank you for coming."
"Mr. Cross." His handshake was firm, confident. "Your email was intriguing."
"Please, sit." He gestured to a seating area with a view. "Can I offer you anything? Coffee? Tea?"
"I'm fine, thank you. Let's talk about this business proposition."
A slight smile crossed his face. "Direct. I appreciate that. Most people in your circle spend twenty minutes on pleasantries before getting to the point."
"I spent three years on pleasantries, Mr. Cross. I'm done with that.
His smile widened. "Then we'll get along well." He settled into the chair across from me. "Here's my situation. I'm trying to break into a market that's been controlled by old money families for generations—luxury hotel chains. Specifically, I want to acquire the Pemberton Hotels."
The Pemberton was one of the oldest, most prestigious hotel chains in the world. Exclusively catering to the ultra-wealthy, with properties in major cities across the globe.
"The Pemberton family won't sell to you," I said immediately. "They barely tolerate new money at their hotels, let alone in ownership."
"Exactly. Which is where you come in." He leaned forward. "Your family has done business with the Pembertons for three generations. Your mother is personal friends with Eleanor Pemberton. You have access I can't buy."
"You want me to broker an introduction."
"I want you to convince them I'm worth talking to. That CrossTech represents the future of luxury hospitality, not its end."
I considered this. "What's in it for me?"
"Beyond the favor of one of the richest men in Manhattan?" He raised an eyebrow. "Five percent of the deal. If I acquire Pemberton Hotels, your cut would be approximately two hundred million dollars."
I kept my expression neutral, though that was more than Marcus Chen's entire net worth. "And the gala?"
"The Pembertons will be there. Eleanor Pemberton specifically. I need to be introduced as your date, someone you trust and vouch for. Someone who belongs in your world."
"You want me to legitimize you."
"I want us to help each other," he corrected. "You get a date who'll make your ex-husband realize what he lost, a significant business deal, and an ally who operates outside your family's sphere of influence. I get access to a market that's been closed to me."
"Why not use your own date? Surely you have options."
"I do. But none with your credibility. You're Richard Sinclair's daughter and Catherine Montgomery's heir. You just walked away from a marriage that was beneath you—everyone in our world knows it, even if they're too polite to say it. And now you're back, which means you're available and making a statement."
I stood, walking to the windows. Below, the city sprawled in all directions, millions of lives and stories and ambitions.
"You've done your research."
"I always do." He joined me at the window. "I know you married Marcus Chen under an assumed name. That you worked as an art gallery consultant making fifty thousand a year. That you lived in a two-bedroom apartment in Brooklyn and took the subway to work. I know you wanted to see if someone could love you for yourself, not your family name."
I turned to face him. "And what's your assessment? Was I naive? Foolish?"
"Brave," he said simply. "Most people born into privilege never question whether they deserve it. You did. That takes courage."
"Or stupidity."
"Sometimes they're the same thing." He smiled. "So? Do we have a deal?"
I studied him for a long moment. Damien Cross was dangerous in a different way than Marcus had been. Marcus was passive, conflict-averse, easily swayed.
Damien was none of those things. He was calculating, ambitious, and exactly the kind of complication I didn't need.
But he was also right. This could work.
"I have conditions," I said.
"Name them."
"First, you follow my lead at the gala. I know these people, I know how they think. If I say something isn't working, we pivot immediately."
"Agreed."
"Second, this is purely business. I'm not interested in any romantic complications."
"Neither am I. I learned a long time ago that mixing business and pleasure is bad for both."
"Third, if the Pembertons decide they don't want to sell, even after meeting you, the deal is off. I won't pressure family friends for your benefit."
He hesitated on that one, then nodded. "Fair enough. Though I'm confident once they meet me, they'll see the value in what I'm offering."
"Your confidence is noted." I extended my hand. "Then we have a deal, Mr. Cross."
He shook it. "Damien. If we're going to convince people we're together, you should probably use my first name."
"Olivia, then.
"I know." His smile was almost predatory. "I'll pick you up Friday at seven. Wear something memorable. We're making a statement."
As I left his office, I texted my mother: You were right. Friday will be interesting.
Her response was immediate: I'm always right, darling. That's why I'm the COO.