I was no longer Nicholai Ivanov, the bastard son of Ruslana Ivanova.
I was brand new, shiny and reborn. Clad in Tom Ford suits, a cunning smile, and well-practiced trust fund–baby mannerisms. People like Ruslana Ivanova would never chart in the world of Christian Miller. They were invisible. Props. Not even a short paragraph in my story. Not a sentence, even. Something between brackets—only if they accidentally broke one of the pricey vases in my living room.
“He won’t recognize me,” I clipped out, noticing the two young women who’d served us were whispering among themselves animatedly, writing their phone numbers down on pieces of paper.
Arsène’s face contorted in abhorrence. “You’re as discreet as the pyramids, Christian. A six-foot-two giant with distinct turquoise eyes and a crooked nose.”
From Conrad’s open-handed hook almost two decades ago, no less.
“Exactly. What he remembers is a scrawny kid he saw a few times during summer break before I needed a damn shave.” I pointed my chopsticks at him.
I was lying. I didn’t think Conrad Roth remembered me at all. Which made taking the case all the easier.
“You’re playing with fire,” Arsène warned.
“Doesn’t matter what I play, as long as it’s always to win.”
“Fine. I’ll humor you for a second. Let’s say he really doesn’t recognize your miserable face and has no idea who you are—why go through the trouble? Where’s the satisfaction?”
“Ah.” I clucked my tongue. “Because anyone else in my position would take a settlement and call it a day. I want to drag him through the mud. Make him suffer. Bonus points: He’d help me become partner. Seal the deal.”
Arsène stared at me like I was insane. Which, admittedly, wasn’t a stretch. I was making very little sense. “Fifty grand says he recognizes you.”
I snorted out a laugh. “Hundred says he doesn’t. I’ll pick up my check Monday.”
There was no way in hell Conrad Roth would know who I was. I’d slipped off his radar shortly after graduating from the Andrew Dexter Academy and changed my legal name, address, and phone number. Nicholai Ivanov had gone MIA weeks after graduation and was presumed dead by the handful of people who gave two shits about him. The irony wasn’t lost on me. Roth had paid for my education up until college—though this was hardly a charitable act—and I’d used the knowledge I’d gathered as weapons against him afterward.
After all, he hadn’t been shy about haunting me even when I’d lived a state away.
“Look, Conrad Roth will recognize you. There are no ifs about it.” Arsène flashed his wolflike white teeth. He hated illogical things. Revenge was one of the least rational things in the world. Ninety-nine percent of the time, it only made things worse.
“And?” I quirked an eyebrow. “Who cares?”
“Your career,” Arsène deadpanned. “Your career cares. I see your deductive reasoning has gone out the window. You could be disbarred if he files a complaint. Is this pissing match worth losing your career over?”
“First of all, it’s not that easy to get someone disbarred. I didn’t get my JD from Costco.” I tossed a piece of edamame into my mouth. “Second, even if he recognizes me—which he won’t—he wouldn’t dare. I have too much leverage on him. No one knows what he did to me.”
“Even if all of those things are true”—Arsène drew a circle with his chopsticks in the air—“you still won’t be able to handle this case with clarity, focus, or an ounce of the sanity you are obviously losing in quantities each passing minute. You lack all three where the Roths are concerned.”
“It’s time they pay for what they did,” I hissed.
One of the women who’d served us swaggered over to us, hips dangling like a pendulum, and slid the two phone numbers across the bar, along with complimentary beers. “Take your pick, boys.” She winked.
“They?” Arsène lifted a dark, thick eyebrow. “We’re talking plural now?”
He stuffed one of the phone numbers in his pocket, even though I knew he wouldn’t call. Between the three of us, Riggs was the one most likely to tumble into bed with someone outside his tax bracket, followed by me, with Arsène lagging far behind. He was a connoisseur of upper-crust, ultrasuccessful women and was very particular about everything: how they tasted, how they smelled, what they wore. If I had to put my money on who was a psychopath between us three, I would place my bet on him.
“You’re grasping.” I walked over to the trash can and disposed of my half-eaten poke.
“And you’re in denial.” Arsène followed behind me. “You’re holding a grudge against a fourteen-year-old girl, Christian. Not your best look.”
“She is not fourteen anymore.” I slammed my palms against the glass door and marched into the dead winter night, sleek sheets of rain coming down on me from the sky. The roar of the city reminded me that I was under the same piece of sky as her and probably only a few streets away.