I gave him my apartment address.
I was going to ruin Nicky. But in my own Ari way.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
CHRISTIAN
Present
“Think again, Mr. Hotshot,” Claire giggled breathlessly, snatching the phone from my hand. We had just walked out of the courthouse. I’d said my goodbyes to Amanda Gispen and the other plaintiffs, ignoring the journalists and photographers begging for a comment, and was about to hail a cab to Arya’s office. First things first, I needed to make sure she was okay with everything that had happened. As okay as one could be considering the circumstances. Second, I needed to come clean.
She had to know who I was.
This could not be postponed any longer.
Claire, apparently, had other ideas.
“Give me my phone back.” I all but bared my teeth at her, stretching my arm with my palm open in her direction. Claire bit down on her lip, glowing with pride. She’d worn a brand-new suit today to court. A double-breasted Alexander McQueen that must’ve cost her an arm, a leg, and her monthly rent.
“No can do, Mr. Miller.” She winked, pocketing my phone. “This is an order from high up. Traurig said no distractions. He has a surprise for you.”
“Give me my phone, Claire,” I said pointedly. “I have someone to call.”
“That someone can wait ten minutes. We work two blocks from here.” Claire wrapped her arm around mine, tugging me forward. “Jeez, don’t be a party pooper. Just make a toast with everyone, thank Traurig and Cromwell, and go your merry way. You’ve gotten this far; are you seriously not going to make it to your own partnership party?” Claire elevated a carefully plucked eyebrow. I wasn’t an easily swayed man. Came with the territory of knowing the price temptation could cost you. I was about to answer her that yes, I was, in fact, going to bail on my own party, because partying wasn’t nearly as important as making sure the woman I was dating was still, in fact, dating me. Just then, I felt two firm hands clapping me on either side of my back.
Shit.
“The man of the hour,” drawled Cromwell, fingering his mustache like a D-grade villain.
“The belle of the ball.” Traurig nudged Claire aside. “I have a Cuban cigar with your name on it and some gold lettering we need to add to the firm’s name. The maintenance guy is already there, waiting for us. Hurry up.”
The maintenance guy was there, waiting to put my letters up. Hunky freaking dory. Claire flashed me a look that said Don’t you dare. She had a point. If I bailed now, I was going to look like a deranged idiot—not the best look. Plus, the outcome wasn’t anything Arya hadn’t been expecting. We’d been discussing this for weeks.
Ten minutes, however, somehow bled into eternity. It took the maintenance guy almost an hour to add the golden letters at the entrance to the firm, possibly because Cromwell and Traurig kept shouting at him that my last name wasn’t symmetrical. After which I was dragged into one of the conference rooms, where the entire firm waited with cake, cigars, booze, and a huge present wrapped in a red satin bow.
“I’m so proud of you. I cannot even tell you how much,” my PA wept. Then every single person on the floor felt the urge to congratulate me and shake my hand, one by one.
I kept telling myself that if Arya was so desperate to talk to me, she could always call my office.
When the Oscar-worthy ceremony was over—two freaking hours later—Traurig asked that I open my giant gift. It turned out to be new business cards with the full, new name of the firm: Cromwell, Traurig & Miller. Bold golden lettering over sleek black cards. I waited for euphoria to take over my senses. But all I could feel when I stared at my new business cards was: I really want to see Arya. Not this evening. Not in an hour. Now.
“Thank you,” I said, my voice steely, circling my fingers around Claire’s arm and leading her out of the conference room. I glanced at my watch again on my way to my office. It seemed like centuries since we’d left the courtroom. The fact I hadn’t called Arya thus far was ill mannered at best and cunt-a-licious at worse.
When we got to my office, I closed the door behind us. My spidey sense told me there was going to be a lot of shouting in my near future.
“Give me my phone, Claire.”
She winced. “So soon? We haven’t even had lunch. I was thinking maybe I could buy you a drink. We have a lot to talk about, and I—”
“Phone!” I slapped my hand on the wall behind her, and she squeaked, jumping. I was not a violent person, but I was starting to lose my patience and didn’t want my first move as a partner to be firing an associate who’d just helped me win a huge case. “Or you walk out of here with security at your fucking heels, Lesavoy.”