Jonathan stood up and left the room for a moment. When he returned he was holding a large, vibrant bouquet of red roses.
“I wasn’t sure what kind of flowers you liked, so I picked the ones I thought suited you best.”
Ramona glanced at the roses he handed her–deep red, impossibly lush. They really did fit her, bold and striking.
“Thank you. I love them,” she said, the hint of a genuine smile lighting her face.
“No need to thank me.”
Across the table, Marigold let out a quiet breath. Jonathan had caught on, at least a little–he was making an effort to patch things up, not just between himself and Ramona, but between their families too.
At the next table, Michael watched the exchange through his gold–rimmed glasses, his expression unreadable as Jonathan presented Ramona with the bouquet. The flowers were certainly eye–catching, but compared to the antique comb he’d just gifted Niamh, their value was worlds apart.
At least in Michael’s mind, if Niamh was worth five hundred million dollars, then Ramona was worth no more than that bouquet of roses.
“So, you’re not bidding this time?” Niamh teased, nodding toward the stage where her donated hair comb was back up for its second round of auction–this time, at a more reasonable price.
“Nope,” Michael replied, shaking his head. “I’m not as reckless as Jonathan, and I don’t even have a girlfriend to give it to. If I bought it for you, you wouldn’t take it anyway.”
Niamh tilted her head, considering for a moment. She almost suggested, “You could give it to Marina!” but realized their friendship wasn’t quite close enough for that kind of advice.
“So you were only bidding so aggressively before because you wanted to outdo Jonathan?”
Michael shook his head again. “Not really… I just wanted to drive up the price and make him spend more money. Think of it as my way of helping you get a little payback,”
Niamh blinked at him, puzzled. She could understand if Michael Irritate Jonathan or stoke his competitive streak, but helping her?
Seeing her confusion, Michael adjusted his glasses, then sald earnestly, “I’m sony Niamh. When you were going through your worst times, I wasn’t there for you
His words pulled Niamh back to those darkest days–when she’d been hounded online, when her company went under and she had no choice but to file for bankruptcy.
“I was sent off to Varythia for some ‘professional development‘ on my dad’s orders, all for the Northriver project. While I was there, I got caught up in some local gang dispute and ended up in the hospital…”
He spoke lightly, but Niamh could easily imagine a scene straight out of a gangster movie–gunfights, chaos, and Michael caught in the middle.
There was a flicker of concern in her bright eyes that Michael didn’t miss. He gave a rare, genuine smile. Outwardly, he always seemed calm and scholarly, but underneath, he was reckless–meant to be furthering his career, and somehow landed himself in a hospital bed.
Not that the gang leaders he’d tangled with fared any better; they were still lying in the hospital, too.
“My dad was furious. Said I was a troublemaker, took my phone, and basically grounded me in the hospital. I was cut off from everything for weeks…”
As he spoke, his smile faded to something more rueful. It wasn’t until his rehab sessions, when he finally got his phone back, that he learned about the disaster that had befallen Niamh.
He wouldn’t have minded if their rumored relationship had just made headlines, but to see her driven out of her own studio and harassed online… that wasn’t what he
wanted at all.
And during that time, the entire Burton Group had gone silent, not a single word of support for Niamh. He could hardly blame them; after all, aside from him, no one there really knew her.
As for the Thomas Group, they’d gone even further–kicking her when she was down, not lifting a finger to help.
Whether it was Sprague behind it or Jonathan, Michael wouldn’t have been surprised either way.
