What We Do in the Night (Day to Night #1) - Stylo Fantome Page 0,109

to business.”

“Seemed to me like you had some business out in that hallway.”

“Do we really need to talk about this?”

“I think we goddamn better,” the other man growled. “You've been avoiding me for weeks, barely pulling your weight around here. You haven't taken any steps to patch things up with Harper, even though I specifically told you to. And now I see you in the hall with some ... jesus, I don't even know what to call that woman.”

Ari wasn't prepared to deal with this; up until twelve hours ago, he hadn't thought he'd had any of the basic emotions. Now, it seemed like all of them were rambling around in his brain, and he'd never been taught how to understand them. He just needed a goddamn second to sort them out and process them, and no one would give him a minute. Not himself, not his father, not even Valentine.

I just need to shut him up and I need to make some time for myself. That's all. Just a little more time.

“She's just a whore,” he spit out. He just wanted to buy himself some time. Get his father off his back. Donald Sharapov thought of whores as basically furniture – he'd forget Valentine's face by the time he left the office, so he wouldn't recognize her in a month or so when Ari would properly introduce her. “Alright? I don't know what she was doing here, she's just some girl I paid for a good time. Don't worry about her, she's not important.”

“She better not be,” his father huffed as he climbed to his feet. “I've invested too much time and effort and money into you, for you to go and blow everything on some prostitute. I get that you've got needs and women like Harper can't deliver on them – but learn some discretion, for god's sake, Ari. Keep your whore out of this work place. Call Harper. I except to see her at dinner next week. Understood?”

Ari sighed and dragged his hands over his face.

“You know what? No. I'm going to say this one more time, and never again. I will never get back together with Harper Kittering. If you want, I'll apologize to her father for wasting his time and hers, but that's the best I can do. Harper's a bitch, and her father isn't worth half as much as he thinks he is, and if you can't recognize that, maybe it's time for you to retire.”

The two Sharapov's stared at each other for a long moment. Don's face mottled white and red as he held in his anger. Ari kept his face impassive, not giving away any of his emotions. It was a game of chicken, and eventually, the elder Sharapov lost. He let out a deep sigh and threw up his hands.

“Fine,” he said. “Fine. You don't want a perfect girl like that, fine. But you need a date for the gala in March, so I'll go through my contacts and find -”

“I'm thirty fucking years old,” Ari snapped. “I'll find my own goddamn date.”

“She better be one that I approve of,” his father warned him. “A lot of important people go to that event – Obama was there last year. Don't fuck this up for us, Ari, or so help me god, I will throw you out on your ass and make sure every firm shuts their doors to you.”

“I wouldn't expect anything less, Dad,” Ari sneered back.

They glared at each other for a second longer, then Don Sharapov stomped out of the room, leaving the office door wide open. Ari watched after him for a while, then let out a frustrated yell.

“Fuck!” he snarled, sweeping his arm over his desk, knocking a pencil cup across the room. It landed on the floor, spilling its contents everywhere, and rolled towards the door. It came up against a black shoe, though, which stopped it from venturing out into the hallway.

“Is this a bad time?” Evans Daniels asked, leaning in the doorway.

“Yes it fucking is,” Ari snapped. “Go away.”

But the other man didn't go away. He stepped inside the room and shut the door behind him, then he took the seat Ari's father had been in only moments ago.

“That didn't seem like a pleasant conversation,” Evans said, casually leaning back in his chair.

“That conversation is none of your business. Leave.”

“It's interesting to see Ari Sharapov lose a little bit of his cool,” Evans kept going. “I mean, you're always tightly wound, and you seemed