Jason's POV
The scent of Christina Jones’ cheap perfume was still ghosting in the back of my throat, a cloying reminder of the "mess" Gregory was currently dissolving. I sat behind my mahogany desk at the Vanderbilt offices, the silence of the executive floor acting as a balm to the static in my head.
I was a Vanderbilt. I didn't panic. I managed.
It was the weekend, a time I usually spent at the estate or on the water, but I needed the sterility of this office. I needed the high-backed leather chair and the view of the city to keep my mind off the girl I had killed. She was a mistake—a momentary lapse in my legendary self-control—and mistakes had to be filed away.
A soft buzz at the intercom broke the stillness. I frowned. My staff knew better than to disturb me today.
"Mr. Vanderbi
