- Boston -

Clark Vanderwood is a legend on his terms, whose reputation walks into the room a good ten minutes before he does. His veins bleed the confidence of a typical playboy mogul, and as the CEO of some of the country's high-end hotel companies, his stature is undeniable. You could observe and take notes endlessly, but it's clear that Mr. Vanderwood possesses skills far beyond the reach of an average person.

I clocked this memo some time ago.

Whenever I'm around my soon-to-be father-in-law, I feel like I'm teetering on the most narrow edge. I know that any misstep could lead to a dangerous fall, one that would plummet me to my doom.

Clark guided me down a corridor of rooms towards his den, famously known as his man cave. If it resembled his previous one, I anticipated it to be just as boujee, if not more.

"I would give you a house tour and show you around, but it would take at least an hour. And neither of us has that kind of time," he chuckled.

I mustered a smile, though deep down, he truly scared the living daylights out of me.

We floated into a huge room that felt more like a swanky apartment. It had a cool, dark vibe with plenty of high-end stuff—two pool tables, loads of arcade games, and a poker table ready for action. The big showstopper was this massive eight-inch TV lighting up the place like a mini cinema. Surrounding the movie screen was an over-the-top bar that would make anyone awe. The second I entered, I noticed a traffic of top-notch boozes on display.

Why spend a week in Las Vegas when you have your casino and bar right at home?

I closed the door behind me as Clark made a hurdler for the bar. "What do you think?" he practically hollered, ensuring I could hear him from across the room.

"I think Sin City is calling," I jokingly announced. Playfully, I mimicked a telephone gesture with my hands and brought it up to my ear. "They want their casino back."

Clark guffawed once more. This time more obnoxious and louder. However, I didn't find my joke nearly as amusing.

It was as flat as a Coke left out overnight.

"You crack me up, Boston." Droplets of tears trickled in the corner of his eyes due to laughter.

"Thanks?" My words sounded more in the form of a question.

Settling into the plush movie-style sofa, I took in the row of massage chair buttons on the cup holder and decided to press one. Instantly, soothing vibrations traveled down my back, easing my tense muscles. Clark snorted, and I allowed myself to relax into the gentle surface of the cushions.

Finally, he returned, holding two crystal glasses in one hand and a bottle of premium whiskey in the other.

Oh brother, I mentally thought when he placed the glasses on a polished black table.  I hesitantly ogled the scotch, then back at the single ice cube nestled in the center of the crystal.

"This was a housewarming gift from Jeff Bezos, imported directly from Yamasaki, Japan," he remarked.

I nearly choked on my saliva.

He unscrewed the cap. A pang of unease settled over me. I wasn't particularly fond of alcohol, but I was pretty sure the bottle alone was worth over half a million dollars, possibly even more over the years. And now he had just opened it.

How stupid.

"You know Jeff Bezos?"

Clark swayed, savoring the aroma of the whiskey.

"Elon Musk, too. But let me tell you, that man is a hard person to reach. He rarely returns any of my calls."

All right, so it was entirely possible to feel financially inferior simply by being in the presence of a diamond-encrusted bottle from one of the world's wealthiest individuals—a billionaire at that.

What had I done to deserve such an experience?

My eyes widened as I realized that Clark had poured the smoky liquid into one of the glasses.

"I'll have to pass on this one, sir." I mustered up the courage to decline either because of my sobriety or the fact that he was drinking whiskey that cost more than my parents' house.

Clark paused, his expression shifting.

"What's the matter? Can't handle a little alcohol?" he retorted boldly.

I cleared my throat. "I don't drink, remember?"

He appeared dumbfounded and quickly screwed the top back onto the bottle. "Right, I completely forgot. I'm sorry. I didn't mean to—"

"Don't worry about it," I reassured him.

Clark proceeded. "Good eye, though. I'm glad those days are put behind you."

"I couldn't agree more." There's no need to bring up my problems. I know what I did was a bit of a felony and I am in his debt. Thanks to my fraternity brothers.

"Okay, what about a bottle of water, then?" he suggested.

I waved off his offer. "I'm good."

Clark pursed his lips and made his way to the recliner opposite my seat. Dropping his drink on a coaster, he grabbed the hem of his khakis and flopped down onto the leather. He stared back at me intensely, his cold eyes like laser beams penetrating the fake wall I had built to shield myself from this uncomfortably intense situation.

I shifted in my seat as Clark crossed his left leg over the other.

"Speaking of the wedding," he began, leaning forward. "Alexa has been bragging to us that she's found a wedding planner."

I cleared my throat, trying to regain my composure. "That's right. We're super stoked. We thought—"

"Excellent," he interrupted, clamping his hands together. "Everything is going according to plan."

Clark rose to his feet and headed towards the door. Anxious, I watched him, my breathing becoming uneven. He stepped into the hallway for a brief moment, looking both ways as if ensuring the coast was clear. He kept his voice low and secretive before exclaiming, "We don't need Alexa overhearing this."

The door closed with a slow creak. I could feel my heart pounding against my chest as he made his way back to his seat.

"You know the drill," he said, prying up his glass. "What can you provide for me on Luxe Hotels?"

As much as I would love to avoid these kinds of conversations with Clark, there was never a guarantee that I could. You see, being a young and successful journalist is quite a challenging feat. And when you have the opportunity to interview a millionaire who is not only your fianceé's father but also a personage, it's a huge deal. Not something to pass up. However, when a girl's father likes you enough to help you secure the hottest internships and dream jobs, desperate situations call for desperate measures.

My vision landed on the ice cubes floating in his glass. Each of the melting cubes represents three of my personal goals being gradually dissolved by Clark and his ego.

"I've come across something significant, but I'm afraid of what it might entail," I confessed.

Clark rubbed his fingers against his chin, deep in thought, and let out a sinister laugh.

That wasn't the answer he was hoping for.

I knew I was in the doghouse now.

"You're afraid, huh?" he asked coldly. "Boston, I don't have time for cowardice. Whatever it is, you need to spit it out. We don't have time to fool around."

I shoveled myself deeper into the hole of cluelessness. Sweat formed on my forehead, turning my face into a makeshift Slip 'N Slide. My mind raced to conjure up an answer that wouldn't make me sound like a babbling child. If only I could tap into his telepathic network of thoughts to obtain the information I needed. But alas, all I managed was a feeble smile and a silent plea for God's mercy.

My throat felt dry and constricted. I regretted not taking up his offer for a drink. So, I blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"There's a line of illicit activities."

Not exactly what I was going for, but it's too late to take it back now.

Clark absentmindedly drew imaginary loops into the leather of the sofa. Each passing second felt like an eternity. Is he going to say something? Anything?

Thankfully, before panic fully took hold of me, a soft sigh escaped his lips.

"Illicit activities? What kind are we talking about of the sort?" he asked.

Now we're getting somewhere.

I scooted forward, bringing my hands together. "You name it. Fraud, money laundering, blackmail. All corruption of power."

"And the whistleblower?" he inquired.

A lump formed in my throat and I gulped harshly.

"There isn't one yet."

I knew one thing about Clark since the day I first met him: he despised it when someone didn't do exactly what he asked. Alexa had once told me about the time he fired the entire staff, from the manager to the receptionist, at his Los Angeles hotel over a simple misunderstanding about the alignment of sheets and towels. So, without a doubt, he would be breathing down my neck over an instruction that could potentially destroy the course of his career.

Clark's muscles tensed and he hunched his shoulders slightly.

In three, two, one . . .

"No whistleblower?" he pressed, his tone demanding. "Without concrete evidence or a reliable source, this is just another baseless speculation."

I stumbled over my words, unable to put it into context. "Let me explain—"

He reached for the lanky gray hairs near his neck, a gesture that made me nervous. If I wasn't engaged to his only child, I was certain I would be out on the street, begging for spare change in one of those camper tents, my career, and life in ruins without his connections.

"Boston, I didn't get you this job just for you to go out and create more accusations."

The lights from the pinball machine caught my attention, momentarily distracting me from my soon-to-be father-in-law's daggers. I understand where he's coming from, but he needs to trust me to do my job. The business and journalism industries may have similarities, but they also have their differences. Clark is always on the prowl for success. He is willing to do whatever it takes to come out on top, even if it means bringing down those who don't play by his cutthroat rules—most notably, me.

It's a delicate balancing act, trying to impress my future in-laws while safeguarding my future in journalism.

"Yes, sir. I understand. But the evidence, the patterns, multiple sources, the inconsistencies—they're all painting a disturbing picture. The information looks legitimate. It seems credible enough for me to write the next article."

"Boston . . . you know we need more than 'seems credible.' This is a hotel chain we're talking about. How can I fight fire with fire if you're not doing a damn thing I asked you to do? Eisenberg won't take you seriously."

"Clark, I assure you, I do not take this lightly."

Rising to his feet, he walked closer to me, causing me to flinch. Standing at nearly six foot three, Clark was quite intimidating even in his old age.

I gritted my teeth and hoped that he wouldn't dismiss me right then and there.

"The public doesn't tolerate half-baked information or wild goose chases. And if you're not willing to step up and face the challenges head-on, then maybe it's time to find a different career path. It's better to know your limits before you drag everyone else down with you," Clark sternly declared.

Ouch.

I clenched my lips together. I had to salvage this situation.

"So, what's the next move?" I questioned, trying to sound confident despite the doubt creeping in.

Clark hauled up his pants by the belt and ambled back towards the door. It was clear that he was done with our conversation and had no intention of bringing it up again for the remainder of the evening.

"That's for you to figure out. Meanwhile, I'll talk to Eisenberg and convince him to extend your deadline," he disclosed before pausing for a moment.

"Hopefully, the news should be out before the shareholders' meeting at the end of the month."

I gave a confirming nod.

"I'll start first thing tomorrow morning, sir," I confidently assured him, even though I had a sneaking suspicion that Clark had already zoned out and was halfway down the hall.

I sighed in relief.

Tackling on this deal with Clark is a make-or-break moment for me. But there's something about me that often goes unnoticed—I always go after what I want, regardless of the circumstances.

If Clark is truly serious about sealing this deal, I will stop at nothing to make it a reality.

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