I can’t wait to read the upcoming release from Winter Renshaw (it was featured on my list of the 10 July Releases I’m Most Excited About, found here). Her books are always unexpected and unpredictable, so I’m curious to see where she’s going with this one. The blurb sounds great and now we have the cover (plus the perfect tease of an excerpt below), so I’m ready to get reading! Trillion releases on July 30th.
Trey Westcott—devastatingly gorgeous. Intimidatingly brilliant. Powerful beyond belief.
A man with all the money in the world—literally.
As the first trillionaire in existence, my boss lives a life most people can only dream of. Anything he wants—anything at all—is a snap-of-the-fingers away.
But when the coldhearted magnate snaps his fingers and requests me for a six month stint on his arm playing the role of his devoted fiancée, he makes an offer I can’t refuse.
And so I don’t.
But I make it clear that for the next 180 days, he’ll have my time, my body, my attention, my discreet professionalism—everything except my heart.
It’s not for sale.
Because all the money in the world can’t change the secret I’ve kept the last ten years. A secret that complicates the very business deal I’m to help him secure. A secret that makes the undeniable tension between us all the more forbidden.
Trey Westcott can have anything he wants … but he can never have me.
Even if he’s all I’ve ever wanted.
I’m in the middle of composing an email to Miranda in accounts receivable when my office phone flashes with an unfamiliar extension.
It takes me two rings to realize who it is.
It takes me two additional stomach-dropping rings to answer. “Sophie Bristol speaking.”
In the three years I’ve worked at Westcott Corporation, Trey Westcott has never called me.
“Ms. Bristol, you’re to report to my office immediately.” The commanding tenor in my boss’ voice sends chills down my spine.
The number of times I’ve seen him personally, I could count on one hand, and most of those times have been in passing—with today being an exception.
From what I’ve heard, a person only gets called into his office when they’re about to be fired. The man likes to do dole out pink slips in person. He claims it’s a respect thing, though I can’t help but wonder if he simply gets off on it. Power changes people.
Then again, Westcott’s been powerful his entire life. Born to one of the richest families in the world and orphaned as a teenager, he’s spent the past twenty years turning his $500 billion inheritance into a net worth that tops a trillion dollars, making him the wealthiest man in existence.
I’ve tried to wrap my head around that kind of money. They say if you were to count to a trillion, it would take two-hundred-thousand years. I don’t think an ordinary person could stay sane knowing they have all the power in the world.
It’s fitting then, I suppose, that Westcott is anything but ordinary.
I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve watched some poor, thankless fool packing their belongings into a cardboard box while they attempt not to break down in tears in front of their staring colleagues. Once they load the elevator, they’re never seen or heard from again.
I don’t tend to fear anyone.
Trey Westcott is an exception.
For the past hour, I’ve replayed the breakroom incident in my mind on a loop, wondering what he heard and how much, if any, he attributed to me. What if he thought I was the one spreading those ridiculous rumors? Then again, he thanked me in the hallway. I assume he was thanking me for defending him, but what if he was being sarcastic?
Also, why is he calling me personally? He has a half a dozen assistants to do this sort of thing …
“Ms. Bristol?” His brusque voice in my ear jerks me into the present.
“Yes.” I keep my composure and swallow my concerns. “I’ll be right there.”
Westcott is my boss’ boss’ boss’ boss’ boss on a zig-zagged chart that makes me dizzy if I stare at it for too long. Honestly, I didn’t think the man knew I existed. I’ve sat in on some meetings, amongst a hundred others, and we’ve passed in the hallway a time or two, never making eye contact. Other than that, nothing about our dealings have been remarkable or memorable, at least not for him.
Me on the other hand—his mere presence tends to knot my stomach and hitch my breath and it’s the strangest thing because no one else can wield that kind of power over me.
I close my email and lock up my office, mentally calculating how long it’ll take to get from the eighth floor of the southwest corner of our extensive corporate campus to the northeast section where I’ll hitch a ride on a private elevator to a penthouse office suite where Mr. Westcott spends no less than eighty hours a week.
Five minutes later, I check in at the desk outside his office where his number one assistant works behind a shiny black desk so gargantuan it nearly swallows her whole.
“Mr. Westcott wanted to see me,” I say. “Sophie Bristol, from payroll.”
The nameplate on her desk identifies her as Mona, and while I’ve seen hundreds of emails go out on his behalf—all with her name on them—I’ve yet to put a face with it. She’s stunning. Wideset hazel eyes. Inky black hair that shines like lacquered glass. Pouty lips. Lingerie model body. Baby face. Barely twenty-two if I had to guess. Twenty-three at most.
She lifts her fingers to the microphone of her headset and mutters something low before pointing to the double doors behind her with the hand-carved Westcott monogram: a giant W flanked with a P on the left for Pierce and an A on the right for Ainsworth.
Pierce Ainsworth Westcott III.
The third in a line of successful, old-moneyed men, the world has always known him as Trey.
“You can head in,” she says. “Mr. Westcott is ready for you.”
I press my fingertips against the gold-plated door handle and give it a push.
It swings open and in a flash of a second, I’m certain I know how Alice felt when she went down the rabbit hole.
Add to your GoodReads TBR ->
Cover: Louisa Maggio
Photog: Sandy Lang Photography
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