Total pages in book: 139
Estimated words: 127941 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 127941 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 640(@200wpm)___ 512(@250wpm)___ 426(@300wpm)
Cruz is the first to join me in the formal dining room, taking his position to the right just behind me. I don’t doubt that he’d prefer to be sitting through all of this. He’s still incredibly sore after being thrown around like a ragdoll yesterday, but he’s not the head of his family and something tells me that standing right at my back is his number one priority.
Carver comes in next with King right on his heels. They take their seats around the table, confident with the security they’ve pulled together, and make sure that no uninvited visitors barge their way onto the property.
The anonymous caller was given a code number to display at the door so we’d know it was the right person, but even still, I’m nervous as fuck.
Grayson is the last to enter. He gives me a tight smile and steps into position behind me, on the opposite side to Cruz. With an incredible force of muscle at my back, the first few heads of Dynasty begin to file in.
I meet the nervous eyes of every man that enters, even the assholes I don’t like. This is out of the ordinary for us, and as the gentlemen quietly talk among themselves, it becomes clear that this isn’t just out of the ordinary, that it’s actually unheard of. The heads of Dynasty are the only ones who call meetings, and it has every single one of us off our game.
Harlen Beckett glances across the table and meets my stare. “Have you got any idea what this is about?”
His question has the rest of the table falling silent and looking my way, desperate for the answers that I also seek. I shake my head. “None,” I tell the men sitting in my home. “I’m in the dark on this one, just like you all.”
“Then why did you agree to take the meeting?” Matthew Montgomery asks, his tone full of curiosity and not disdain.
I meet his stare across the table. “Because if someone not only went to the effort to call a meeting like this but also has the balls to follow through on it, it must be important. Plus, I don’t want to risk skipping out on information that could be detrimental to who we are because I was too scared or nervous to take the meeting. That’s not who I am, and I sure hope it’s not who any of you are either.”
Heads nod all around the table and before another word can be said, the big double doors are pushed open and Ember Michaelson strides through, her head held high with a folder of papers shoved under her arm.
I throw myself to my feet, my eyes wide. “Ember,” I hiss, drawing her attention to me and not the suits sitting around me. “What the hell are you doing? You can’t be here. We’re about to have a council meeting.”
Ember just stares as she continues walking deeper into the room, making her way around the massive table and only stopping when she hits the spot that Michael Harding would have been seated had he still been alive.
“What are you doing?” I repeat a little more forceful as my stomach begins to twist and turn.
“Babe,” Cruz mutters from behind me. “Get her the fuck out of here. This is not the time for her to be fucking around and throwing a hissy-fit because you’ve been dodging her calls.”
My jaw clenches, feeling that this is so much more than just a hissy-fit. What’s about to happen here is a knife stabbed right through my back.
Ember stands behind Michael’s chair, her hand propped on the high back as I slowly lower myself back into my seat. “What is the meaning of this?” Harlen Beckett roars across the table. “This is a closed meeting. See yourself out at once.”
Ember’s sharp glare slices to Harlen with an icy stare before she leans around the chair and slides her folder of papers onto the table. She meets my stare and with a blank expression, says whatever the fuck it is that she needs to say. “Let me introduce myself,” she says, her voice loud and clear. “My name is Ember Michaelson, formerly Ember Harding, the estranged daughter of Michael Harding and Paris Moustaff. I am your anonymous caller who requested this meeting today. I am the true Harding heir, and this,” she says, pulling out Michael’s chair and dropping her ass into it, “is officially my seat at the table.”
“The fuck?” I grunt, flying back to my feet and gaping at the girl who sits almost directly opposite me, a girl who in the space of two seconds has become a complete stranger to me. A flurry of noise sounds around me, loud objections and gasps of outrage from the heads of Dynasty, yet my voice travels over it all. “You’re fucking lying. Why are you doing this?”