Nicky's head wouldn't stop pounding.
The pain came in waves, heavy behind his eyes, crawling down the back of his neck until every light in his office seemed too bright. Nine days sober, and it still felt like withdrawal was digging through his skull with a spoon.
He closed his eyes, rubbing at his temples, but the pain wasn't only from detox. It was the boardroom.
For years he had bled for Saint-Claire Holdings, dragging it back from the brink after his father's death, rebranding the hotels, doubling their real estate footprint.
If his grandfather has ever been right?
It was that he was destined to bring the company to new heights.
He had been the golden heir, the man who made Saint-Claire relevant again. And in three weeks of absence, they had dared to call him unfit.
The private room smelled of cigars and old wood polish. Gallagher sat back in the leather chair, a whiskey sweating on the table between them, chewing a cigar as if he owned the place.
