She Wants My Fortune, Not My Heart

The Tipsy Confession

TOM POV

Selene Brooks doesn’t look like a woman who begs for anything.

When the hostess leads me toward the corner booth at the back of Mercer’s, Selene is already standing to meet me, smoothing down the front of a sharp, ivory silk blouse tucked into high-waisted black trousers. Her dark hair is pinned up at the crown of her head, a few loose strands curling against her jawline, and even in the dim amber glow of the restaurant’s sconces, her hazel eyes are laser-focused.

I’ve seen her from across crowded conference halls before. Usually standing at a podium while Vivian glared at her from the front row, but up close, the sheer intensity rolling off her is startling.

"You actually came," Selene says, extending her hand across the white tablecloth. Her grip is firm, her palm warm against mine. "Honestly, after call number ninety, my assistant started taking office bets on whether you’d block my number or file a restraining order."

"I was tempted," I admit, sliding into the curved leather booth across from her and setting my briefcase beside my hip. "Especially around seventy-five. You called at four in the morning."

An unapologetic grin tugs at the corner of her painted mouth as she sits. "Our London server farm crashed during a stress test that night. I was desperate, caffeinated, and annoyed." She gestures to the open bottle of Cabernet breathing between us and the two crystal glasses already poured. "I ordered a Bordeaux and two ribeyes before you got here. If you’re a vegetarian, you’re going to break my heart."

"Steak is fine."

I pick up my glass and take a slow sip. The wine is dry, rich, and hits my empty stomach with an immediate bloom of warmth. I haven't eaten a bite since seven this morning, and between the fourteen hours of coding and the bomb Vivian dropped on my life an hour ago, my nerves are wired tight enough to snap.

Selene rests her elbows on the table, lacing her fingers together as she studies my face. She doesn't look at my wrinkled Henley or the rain still damp in my hair the way Scarlet did. She looks at me like I’m a puzzle she’s been trying to crack for months.

"You didn't bring your lawyers," she notes quietly.

"Neither did you." I set my glass down and unlatch my briefcase, pulling out a two-page benchmark summary. None of the source code, just Elisa’s verified stress-test metrics, and slide it across the table. "Read the numbers first. We can talk with the lawyers tomorrow."

Selene picks up the sheet. As her eyes track down the columns, the playful curve of her lips flattens into a look of pure, unadulterated hunger. Her breath catches halfway down the second page.

"Zero point zero-two percent packet drop during a simulated blackout," she whispers, her fingertips tightening on the edge of the paper. She looks up at me, eyes wide. "Tom, this isn't just a stability patch. If I integrate this into Brooks Systems’ payment gateway, our client retention jumps overnight. This would boost net profits by—"

"Eleven point four percent in the first quarter alone," I finish for her. "Give or take half a point depending on your server load."

She sets the paper down slowly, staring at me as the waiter arrives to set two sizzling plates between us and refills our glasses. Neither of us speaks until his footsteps fade back toward the kitchen.

"Why are you sitting across from me with this?" Selene asks, her voice dropping an octave. "Everyone in the industry knows Baudelaire Tech just landed Vanguard tonight. With this patent, Vivian could crush my company in the upcoming conglomerate tender next month. Why haven't you handed it to her?"

Because my marriage is a two-hundred-dollar lie.

I pick up my steak knife, cutting cleanly through the meat.

"Because I own the patent, Ms. Brooks. Not Baudelaire Technologies. And I’ve decided my work deserves a partner who actually values the architecture."

Selene’s eyes narrow slightly. She reaches for her wineglass, taking a long drink before leaning forward. "You know, when Walter at the patent bureau tipped me off that the core code behind Baudelaire Tech belonged to a man named Tom Monroe, I had my team run a background check on you."

I don't flinch. "And did you find anything interesting?"

"I found a brick wall," she says softly, tilting her head.

"Every file on your background from five years ago is sealed behind military-grade encryption. A man who supposedly just 'handles household logistics' for his CEO wife doesn't have the clearance to wipe his own digital footprint. And he certainly doesn't share a last name with the Monroe family of Apex Global by coincidence."

My gaze locks with hers over the rim of my glass. "Monroe is a common name."

"Apex Global is the richest family conglomerate on the East Coast," she presses, a flush of wine and curiosity coloring her cheeks. "And rumor has it their chairman’s only son walked away from the family board five years ago to live a quiet life, right around the time Vivian Baudelaire suddenly found the capital to launch her company."

"You’ve had two glasses of wine, Selene," I say smoothly, giving her nothing. "And if you want to license my patent, I suggest you focus on my code instead of my family tree."

She holds my stare for three seconds, then lets out a low, breathless laugh, shaking her head. "God, you don't give an inch, do you?"

By the time the plates are cleared and the second bottle of Bordeaux is half-empty, the sharp edges of the room have begun to blur into a warm, pleasant hum. The alcohol sits heavy in my veins, loosening the iron band that’s been squeezing my ribs since I stood outside that banquet hall.

I’m just reaching for the check when the leather cushion beside me dips.

Selene slid out from her side of the booth and moved onto the bench right next to me.

"Selene—"

"Wait," she murmurs.

She’s definitely tipsy. Her cheeks are stained a deep rose, her pupils dilated until the hazel is almost entirely swallowed by black, and when she turns toward me, the scent of her perfume, warm sandalwood and night-blooming jasmine wraps around my head like smoke.

Before I can shift back, her hand lands on the side of my neck, her thumb brushing the line of my jaw.

My pulse stutters. It’s been five years since a woman touched me without flinching away like I was contagious.

Even through the haze of the wine, the heat of her palm against my skin sends a jolt straight down my spine.

"Do you have any idea how blind your wife is?" Selene whispers, her face inches from mine. Her breath is warm and sweet with red wine. "Vivian Baudelaire walks around this city acting like she built an empire, while she treats the man who actually built it like dirt. She’s fickle, Tom. She’s arrogant, and she has never once cherished what she has right in front of her."

My jaw tightens. "You don't know anything about my marriage."

"I know enough," she says fiercely, her fingers curling into the collar of my shirt as she leans closer. "I saw you two years ago at the Geneva summit. You stood in the back row by the doors for three hours just to make sure she had her coat when the air-conditioning got too cold, and she didn't even look at you when she walked past. I didn't call you a hundred times just for a piece of software, Tom. I called because if you were mine, I’d never let you stand in the back of the room."

Her lips part, brushing against the corner of my jaw as she tilts her chin up to kiss me.

For a moment, the temptation to let her—to drown five wasted years in the warmth of a woman who actually wants me, is almost overwhelming.

Then I grip her shoulders, firm but gentle, and ease her back against the leather seat.

"Stop," I say, my voice rough.

Selene blinks up at me, hurt flashing across her flushed face. "Is it because you still love her?"

"It’s because you’re drunk," I tell her, standing up and buttoning my jacket. "And when I walk into something new, Selene, I don't do it as a cheat or a rebound."

I pull her to her feet, steady her when her heel catches on the rug, and walk her out into the cool night air under the restaurant’s awning. When the valet pulls her town car up to the curb, I open the rear door and help her inside.

She catches my wrist before I can step back, her eyes clear despite the wine. "Tomorrow morning," she says. "Nine o'clock at Brooks Systems. Bring the licensing contract, Tom. Let’s take everything she thinks belongs to her."

"Nine o'clock," I promise, and shut the door.

It’s almost midnight when my key turns in the front lock of the townhouse.

I push the heavy oak door open expecting the usual dark, empty hallway, already rolling my shoulders to shake off the lingering buzz of Bordeaux.

Instead, every light in the foyer is blazing.

Vivian is sitting on the edge of the cream velvet sofa in the living room, still wearing her emerald banquet gown, her diamond heels kicked carelessly onto the rug. The second the door clicks shut behind me, her head snaps up.

"Where the hell have you been?" she demands, rising to her feet. Her voice is tight, frayed around the edges. "I left the banquet at ten-thirty because I had a migraine, and your car wasn't even in the driveway. Why weren't you home?"

I toss my keys into the glass bowl on the console table and look at her. Really look at her, without the rose-colored glasses that blinded me for five years.

"You had your celebration banquet tonight," I say calmly.

"I figured I was allowed to go out for a drink with friends, too."

Vivian’s brows knit together, annoyed by the pushback.

She stalks across the floor toward me, reaching out to lay a hand on my chest, probably to launch into her usual routine of sighing and asking me to rub her temples.

Then she stops dead within a foot of me.

Her nostrils flare. The color drains from her cheeks in an instant, her eyes dropping to the open collar of my shirt where Selene’s fingers gripped me twenty minutes ago.

"What is that smell?" Vivian’s voice drops to a venomous hiss. She steps closer, her manicured nails digging into the fabric of my sleeve as her gaze snaps up to mine. "That’s women’s perfume. Jasmine and sandalwood. Who the hell were you with tonight, Tom—are you cheating on me?”