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Carter's POV

I pace the length of my office unable to settle down. As the clock ticks closer to four p.m., the closer I get to meeting the Ded Moroz in person. I have been waiting for this for longer than I can admit. As they say, 'Keep your friends close, but your enemies closer'.

Finally four comes around. I enter the meeting room before him. He walks in a few minutes later. Mr. Von or 'Ded Moroz' as many know him is one of the richest men in New York, with a reputations for bringing 'gifts' to all the idiots who are stupid enough to cross him.

"It's a pleasure to meet you." I say engaging Mr. Von in a handshake. His grip on my hand is as firm as his gaze, he is measuring me up and down. I return the favor showing him that I am no newbie.

"The pleasure is all mine." He says while retracting his hand, a flicker of impression visible in his tight lipped smile.

"Shall we proceed?" I ask before motioning him and his entourage to assume their seats.

"Gladly." He replies already deeply engrossed in the handouts being distributed by my secretary.

At 8 pm, I saunter out of the meeting room, a satisfied smile on my face. The presentation I gave had Ded Moroz drooling on my table, sooner or later I'll have captured his measly two billion dollars, with the acclaim that comes with working with him.

I grab my twenty two thousand dollar Tom Ford briefcase and ride the elevator down to the executive parking lot. I find the valet waiting with my car keys in hand. I take them from him and get into the driver's seat. The tires screech as I pull out and join the stream of cars heading out of 45th Rockefeller Plaza. As I cruise through minimal traffic, I contemplate whether I shouldn't turn around and head to my penthouse in Lower Manhattan at 19 Dutch, with its expansive one-eighty degrees view of the Atlantic and the skyline many would kill to see once, but I continue ahead on Sixth.

I spot a parking space without much of a hustle and take an elevator to the 8th floor of The Laureate where Tara's apartment is nestled facing West on Broadway street. I get the key out of my pocket and let myself in as silently as I have been doing for the past week.

A light in the kitchen is still on. I presume she absentmindedly left it on as she went to sleep. I shrug out of my coat and carry it along with my briefcase to the kitchen. My surprise is palpable when I find Tara sitting on the low backed kitchen stool with an empty mug beside her.

"You're still up?" I comment while I set the coat and briefcase on the counter.

"I am." She answers. In her voice I detect an underlying anger. Whatever has happened has her wound up enough to forsake her sleep when she has work tomorrow.

Rolling up my shirt sleeves in the process, I head to the kitchen to get something to drink. I open a can of beer from the fridge without a word from Tara.

She looks at me closely, almost squinting. What is she trying to see? I tilt my head sideways quizzically. "What game are you playing?" She asks, her calm demeanour dropping to reveal the true depth of her pique, and it sure as hell is deep.

For a moment, I fear she has discovered my motives and is going to get rid of me before I can finish my work. She gets up and prowls towards me, her stature almost intimidating if it wasn't for the fact that I tower over her considerably.

"Why did you get the videos removed?" She asks while shooting me death glares. I can't help laughing when I surmise that all this fuss is about those videos. Her expression clearly depicts that this is no laughing matter.

I straighten up quickly and look her straight in the eye, "I thought you could use the help." I hope she doesn't catch on that I am feeding her a white lie.

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