The following week was a exercise in psychological warfare. I spent my days reviewing the page Genevieve had given me—a list of names and figures that confirmed the zoning board was practically on her father's payroll. It was enough to start a fire, but not enough to burn the house down. I needed the rest.
But more than the ledger, I found myself craving the friction. I had spent my entire adult life in a state of calculated isolation. Genevieve was the first person in years who didn't want something *from* me in a way I could easily quantify. She wanted to dismantle me.
I invited her to my penthouse under the guise of "further negotiations."
When she arrived, she wasn't wearing a gown. She was wearing a charcoal grey pencil skirt and a white silk blouse buttoned all the way to the thro
