𝐓𝐀𝐍𝐆𝐋𝐄𝐃 | ᴀ ᴅʀᴀᴍɪᴏɴᴇ ꜱᴛᴏʀʏ

Chapter 20

OKAY. SO THAT DIDN'T GO VERY WELL.

You're right—it was a goddamn disaster. You think I should have gone after her? Well you're wrong. Have you ever read The Art of War by Sun Tzu? I have. It's a book about military strategy. A good general knows when to attack. A great general knows when to pull back. To regroup.

I've told Hermione what I needed to. Now I have to show her.

Actions win wars. Actions heal wounds. Not words. Words are cheap. Mine, in particular, have the combined value of pocket lint at the moment.

So...I have a plan. And failure's not an option. Because this isn't just about me, about what I want. Not anymore. It's about what Hermione wants too. And she wants me. Sure, she's fighting it—but it's there. Like it's always been.

No one will ever be to Hermione what I can be. And—before you take my head off—I'm not saying that because of my overdeveloped sense of confidence. I'm saying it because behind the anger, under the hurt...Hermione is just as in love with me as I am with her.

Looking at her was like looking in a goddamn mirror.

So I won't quit. I won't throw in the towel. Not until we both have what we want.

Each other.

Hey—you know what else a great general knows how to do?

Call in the reserves.

Here's a fact for you: Most men can't multitask.

It's true.

That's why you won't catch many guys trying to make a full-course Thanksgiving dinner. That's the reason mothers all over the world come home to a disaster area when they leave their kids with the hubby for a few hours. Most of us can only really focus on one thing at a time.

Most of us—but not me.

Before I'm out the door of the office, I've got Astoria on the cell. No, I'm not a slave driver. If you're an assistant to one of the most successful I-bankers in New York City, late-night calls are part of the job description. Now that my head has been removed from its weeklong vacation up my ass, I need to find out if I have any clients left to work with.

Lucky for me, I do.

"I hope you can grow a third kidney, Draco," Astoria says. "Because if Harry, Theo, and Blaise ever need one at the same time, you're going to have to hand them over."

Apparently, they're the ones who've been covering for me while I was making that permanent dent in my couch.

"Book Theo a table at Scores this weekend. On me."

Nothing says thank you like a prepaid stripper.

As for Harry and Blaise—I'm going to need to think about that one. I have a feeling titty bars are outlawed on the Dark Side.

After Astoria updates me about work, I tell her to clear my schedule and give her a list of the things I'll need for tomorrow. I've got a hell of a day planned—but it's got nothing to do with investment banking.

By the time we hang up, I'm walking through the door of my apartment. Jesus Christ. I cover my nose with my hand. How the hell did I live with that smell for seven days?

Oh, that's right—I was a vegetable.

I take a good look around. Garbage bags line one wall. Empty bottles are stacked on the table. Dirty dishes fill the sink, and the air reeks like that stale scent that seeps through your car vents when you're stuck in traffic behind a garbage truck. Pansy did her best to clean up, but it's still a disaster.