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To the DARE team for their vision, guidance and
support—I have the best job writing these stories!
Contents
Note to Readers
Orla
I TAKE THE first delicious and well-earned sip of my drink with a sigh, my lip curling with satisfaction as the decadent flavour of the Macallan Scotch glides over my tongue. Not because I drink a lot of the spirit, or alcohol in general, but because it’s a Scottish single malt, and therefore considered inferior by my Irish-born father. Even at the age of thirty-six, I feel the need to break free from his expectations.
The oppressive feeling that’s followed me since I arrived in Monaco to pursue my latest client, Jensen’s, weighs down on me once more, as if the air itself is too heavy. My intel that Jensen’s are shopping around, sniffing at my father’s door, adds to the pressure. Perhaps I’m burning out, pushing myself too hard to be the best, to outmanoeuvre the man who considered me unworthy to take the helm of our family business. But this deal has too much riding on it for me to blow it now; better to back off, to let the prospective client feel as if they’ve been wooed, but not cornered.
My fingers toy with my glass, slowly spinning it on the sleek and shiny bar. I look around the dimly lit intimacy of the casino, trying to shake off any thought of work, more determined than ever to embrace a change of pace for the evening. That’s why I’m here, dressed to the nines, pretending to enjoy myself at Monaco’s most glamorous club; why I left my sumptuous suite in the hotel upstairs despite its stunning views of Port Hercule in the dusk, a million lights dancing on the gently bobbing Mediterranean Sea. To let off a little long-overdue steam after a day of meetings, of waiting for the email that will tell me I’ve won Jensen’s’ business from under my father’s nose.
I clink the ice in my glass, smirking at my pathetic efforts to cut loose from working, which is pretty much my entire life—a single-drink party for one.
Wow, Orla. You really know how to let your hair down…
Ignoring my snarkier side, and to distract me from ruminating on the high stakes of the Jensen’s deal, I slide my stare around the casino, scanning the tables beyond the bar while I contemplate a tame gamble to liven up my rare night off. A small bet won’t hurt, even if it goes against every cell of my venture capitalist’s brain to risk money on a whim of chance. But it’s exactly what I need—a release valve, a way to break free from my own head, my own high expectations, my endless desire to succeed.
A distraction.
I sigh, disgusted with myself. It’s been ten years since I was passed over for my younger and less qualified brother. Ten years of hard work, one successful global investment firm and one marriage casualty later and I’m still trying to prove him wrong. My father, that is.
My roaming attention is drawn to the group of excited onlookers around one of the roulette tables. Someone must be about to either lose or double a significant chunk of his net worth on a single spin of the wheel for the game to attract such interest. We’re all members of the M Club here, all wealthy enough for an invitation-only membership and therefore used to top-shelf hedonistic pursuits, so this big roller must be something else.
I click my tongue against my teeth at such reckless behaviour. To me money is sacrosanct—a means to live on my own terms and a marker of success beyond being from one of Sydney’s most affluent families. My entire livelihood is based on how much wealth I can generate for my clients, who trust me with their investments.
I crane my neck despite myself, curiosity winning over the distaste of witnessing someone about to gamble with daredevil abandon, if the crowd of onlookers is any indication, catching only a glimpse of the back of a blond head. His hair is a little long for the usual immaculate clientele of the M Club, but whoever it is who’s providing this evening’s entertainment, at least he’s enjoying himself and thrilling the crowd. At least he’s not moping at the
