Chapter 1 Noah

Noah

What a fucking public relations nightmare.

I’m at a charity event on behalf of Tate & Cane Enterprises. My new wife hasn’t been seen or heard from in two days; my best friend, Sterling, is in the bathroom fucking a waitress; and I’m standing here with a spatula in my hand, cursing them all a slow death under my breath.

We’re at a charity event at a soup kitchen. Supposedly, we’re doing good for the impoverished youths of our community, but it’s really just an excuse to empty the pockets of New York’s elite by serving them a very overpriced lunch. And considering I’m one of the cooks, I doubt it’ll taste like much. I enjoy cooking; I just rarely do it. I have one, maybe two recipes my mother used to make that I’ve mastered, and curried chicken salad isn’t one of them. The smell alone is nauseating. Though that could be because I have no appetite.

For the hundredth time, I wish I’d just hired Rosita and written her a blank check. If I had, they’d be eating like kings today. But the good cause isn’t the only reason I’m here. Hell, it’s not even my main reason.

As soon as I arrived at the soup kitchen this morning, the vultures of New York high society descended, peppering me with questions. How was the wedding? Why are you alone? Where’s your blushing goddamned bride?

Even if I had a clue how to answer, it was none of their fucking business. Olivia’s father, Fred Cane, stepped in and saved me, telling everyone the ceremony was intimate and beautiful, and that Olivia sends her regrets but was unable to make it. I volunteered for kitchen duty just to get a few hours of peace away from the public eye.

Or at least, that was the idea. I force myself to grin at the photographer who invaded the kitchen twenty minutes ago as his camera clicks away. If he asks me one more time where Olivia is, I’m going to shove his thousand-dollar camera up his ass.

“How’s it coming?” the lead cook asks, looking into the massive stainless steel mixing bowl of chopped chicken dripping in amber curry.

“All set.” I slide the bowl toward him just as another cook sets a tray of pre-sliced croissants on the industrial kitchen’s counter.

They thank me for coming today as I remove my stained apron and toss it in the laundry basket on my way out of the kitchen.

A few more hands to shake, a couple of photo ops, and then I’m out of here. Sterling is still nowhere to be found, but the prick can find his own ride home. It’s not as if New York City isn’t crawling with taxis. And I’m not in the mood for company anyway.

When Olivia stood me up at the altar, something inside me broke. I’d worked my ass off to try to show her that we could actually work as a couple, and I thought we were getting somewhere. Sharing an apartment, sleeping in the same bed, our sweet make-out sessions that were starting to turn into something more. And we were gelling at the office too . . . slowly turning the company around, one executive decision at a time.

I blow out a frustrated sigh. Never in my life have I worked this hard at winning over a woman. But Olivia’s not just any woman. I grew up with her, placed her on this untouchable pedestal for twenty years, and she was this close to being mine. Before she ran off. And I still don’t even understand why. Though I have a damn good idea—

The heir clause in our inheritance contract.

Sterling was right. I guess she didn’t want me putting a bun in her oven after all. But I never thought she’d react like this. Scream and swear and cut off my balls, yes. Vanish without a trace, no.

In the event hall, people are mingling, shaking hands, and munching on the crudité. I spot Olivia’s father at the far end of the room and start toward him. He’s a short, squat man with silver hair, a round belly, and a perpetual grin on his face. Basically, he’s like Santa’s brother. It’s hard not to love the guy, even when he won’t tell me what I need to know, and is being a royal pain in my ass.

“You ready to tell me where she is?” I ask, leaning in so only he can hear me.

He excuses himself from the man he was talking to and turns toward me. “Noah,” he starts, his tone jovial as if we’re discussing our upcoming yachting weekend on the Hudson.

“Cut the shit, old man.” I maintain a friendly grin in case anyone is watching. “Where is she?”

He lets out a heavy sigh, and for the first time, I can see that this is weighing on him almost as much as it’s weighing on me.