Chapter 9: Antwerp Numbers

Miles's POV

By Friday my proposal video had four million views and a new set of comments.

I read them in the back of a taxi on the way to dinner, one thumb scrolling.

Tell Trevor to delete his wedding.

Imagine marrying your fiancé's brother. In front of the fiancé.

Where is the groom now? Somebody find the groom.

Then there was my mother's post.

She had put it up on her page that morning, with a photo of Trevor in his hospital bed.

My eldest son has left the country while his dying brother fights for his life. We are praying he finds his way home.

It had nine thousand likes.

I put the phone face down on my knee.

Kate sat across from me in the cab in a dark green dress I had not known she owned.

"Don't read it," she said.

"I already did."

"Then put it away. We have six clients at that table and one of them is the most important man in the Atlantic freight trade."

"What does he like?"

"Being told he's right."

The restaurant was above the old harbor, with white tablecloths and a waiter who bowed to Howard.

Howard sat at the head of the table in his best suit.

Six clients sat around it, four men and two women, all with the careful faces of people who spent money for a living.

Kate sat to my left, and the oldest client sat to my right.

He was a silver-haired Dutchman, and he had been talking to me for twenty minutes about container weights.

I answered every question. I was good at this part.

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